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THE  LAND  OF 
COCKAYNE 

MATILDE  SERAO 


:•« 


«(••••••••••*•••••••• 


THE  LAND  OF 

COCKAYNE 


By 

MATILDE  SERAO 

AUTHOR   OF 

FAREWELL    LOVE!"     "FANTASY" 
"  THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME"  ETC. 


HARPER  <5^  BROTHERS 
NEW  YORK  AND  LONDON 
PUBLISHERS  -  -  1901 


Annex 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER 

I.  THE  LOTTERY  DRAWING        .  .  .  .  . 

ii.  AGNESINA  FRAGALA'S  CHRISTENING  ..  . 

III.  IN    THE    CAVALCANTIS'    HOUSE      .  .  .  .  . 

IV.  DR.    AMATI         .  .                   .  .                   .  .  .  .  . 

V.    CARNIVAL    AT    NAPLES    .  .                    .  .  .  .  . 

VI.    DONNA    CATERINA    AND    DONNA    CONCETTA  . 

VII.    DON    GENNARO    PARASCANDOLO'S    BUSINESS  . 

VIII.    IN    DON    CRESCENZIO'S    LOTTERY-SHOP  .  .  . 

ix.  BIANCA  MARIA'S  VISION              ..  ..  . 

X.    MAY    AND    SAN    GENNARO'S    MIRACLE  ..  . 

XI.    AN    IDYLL    AND    MADNESS                 ..  ..  . 

XII.    THE    THREE    SISTERS  —  CHIARASTELLA    THE    WITCH 

xiii.  THE  CONFECTIONER'S  SHOP  BANKRUPT  .  .  . 

xiv.  THE  MEDIUM'S  IMPRISONMENT  ..  ..  . 

XV.    SACRILEGE  —  LOVE'S   DREAM   FLED  .  .  . 

XVI.    PASQUALINO    DE    FEO'S   WILL         ..  ..  . 

xvn.  BARBASSONE'S  INN  —  THE  DUEL  ..  . 

XVIII.    TO    LET                ..                   ..                   ..  ..  . 

xix.  DON  CRESCENZIO'S  TRIALS         ..  ..  . 

XX.    BIANCA    MARIA    CAVALCANTI            .  .  .  .  . 


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CHAPTER  I 

THE    LOTTERY    DRAWING 

THE  afternoon  sun  crept  into  the  Piazzetta  del  Banchi  Nuovi, 
broadening  from  Cardone's,  the  engraver,  to  Cappa's,  the 
chemist,  lengthening  on  from   there  up   the  whole   Santa 
Chiara  Road,  spreading  a  light  of  unusual  gaiety  over  the 
street,  which  always  wears,  even  in  its  most  frequented  hours, 
a  frigid,  claustral  aspect.     But  the  great  morning  traffic,  of 
people  coming  from  the  northern  districts  of  the  town — 
Avvocata,  Stella,  San  Carlo  all'  Arena,  San  Lorenzo — to  go 
down  to  the  lower  quarters  of  Porto,  Pendino  and  Mercato, 
or  vice  versa,  had  been  slowly  slackening  since  mid- day  ; 
the  coming  and  going  of  carts,  carriages  and  pedlars  had 
ceased  ;  everybody  seemed  to  be  taking  short  cuts  by  the 
Chiostro  di  Santa  Chiara  and  the  Vico  i°  Foglia  towards 
Mezzocannone    Alley,   the    Gesu     Nuovo,   San    Giovanni 
Maggiore.     Presently  the  sun's  brightness  lit  up  a  street  by 
then  quite  deserted.     The  shopkeepers  on  the  right  side  of 
Santa  Chiara — as  the  left  side  is  only  the  high,  dark  en- 
closure wall  of  the  Poor  Clares'  Convent — dealers  in  old 
dusty  or  wretched  mean  new  furniture,  coloured  engravings, 
shiny  oleographs,  wooden  and  stucco  saints,  were  at  the  back 
of  their  dark  shops,  eating  over  a  corner  of  wine-stained  table- 
cloth, with   a   caraffe  of  Marano  small  wine,  closed  by  a 
twisted  vine-leaf,  standing  by  a  big  dish  of  macaroni.     The 
porters,  seated  on  the  ground  at  the  shop  entrance,  were 
eating  lazily  at  a  small  loaf  of  bread,  cut  in  two  to  hold  some 
tasty  viand — fried  gourd  soaked  in  vinegar,  parsnips  in  green 
sauce,    pomegranates    seasoned    with   vinegar,    garlic    and 
pepper.    The  sharp,  greasy  smell  of  the  quantity  of  tomatoes 
all  this  macaroni  was  cooked  in,  from  one  end  of  the  street 
to  the  other,  mingled  with  the  acute  odour  of  sour  vinegar 
and  coarse  spices.     From  some  passing  fruitseller,  carrying 
a  nearly  empty  basket  of  figs  on  his  head,  or  pushing  a 
barrow  with  purple  plums,  and  tough  spotted  peaches  at  the 

i 


2  THE  LAND  OF  COCKA  YNE 

bottom  of  the  baskets,  the  shopkeepers,  clerks  and  porters, 
lips  still  red  from  tomatoes  or  shining  with  grease,  bar- 
gained for  a  pennyworth  of  fruit,  to  finish  their  meal ;  two 
workmen,  in  front  of  the  Martello  printing-shop,  where 
the  small  visiting-card  press  had  stopped,  deeply  coveted  a 
yellow  melon  ;  and  two  seamstresses  were  waiting  on  a 
doorstep  chattering,  till  the  seller  of  pizza  passed,  which  is 
the  shredded  rind  of  tomato,  garlic,  and  wild  marjoram, 
cooked  in  the  oven,  and  sold  at  a  farthing,  a  halfpenny,  a 
penny,  the  piece.  The  pizzaiuolo  did  pass,  in  fact,  but  he 
was  carrying  his  wooden  tray,  shining  with  oil,  under  his 
arm,  without  a  bit  of  pizza ;  he  had  sold  everything,  and 
was  going  off  to  eat  his  own  meal,  down  to  the  Porto 
quarter,  where  his  shop  was.  The  two  disappointed  seam- 
stresses consulted  each  other  ;  one  of  them,  a  blonde,  with  a 
golden  aureole  round  her  pale  gentle  face,  moved  off  with 
that  undulating  step  that  gives  an  Oriental  touch  to  a 
Neapolitan  woman's  charm.  She  went  up  Santa  Chiara 
Road,  bending  her  head  so  as  not  to  get  the  sun  in  her  face, 
and  went  into  Impresa  Lane,  towards  the  wineseller's  dark 
shop — which  was  a  drinking-shop,  too — almost  opposite  the 
Impresa  Palace ;  she  was  going  to  buy  something  to  eat 
for  her  friend  and  herself.  The  Impresa  Lane  had  got 
empty,  too,  after  mid-day,  when  all  go  back  to  their  houses 
and  shops  to  eat,  as  the  summer  heat  gets  greater,  and  the 
controra — the  time  of  the  Neapolitan  day  that  corresponds  to 
the  Spanish  siesta — begins  with  food,  rest  and  sleep  for  tired 
folk.  The  dressmaker,  a  little  frightened  by  the  darkness 
of  the  cellar,  out  of  which  came  a  sour  smell  of  wine,  had 
stopped  on  the  threshold;  blinking,  she  looked  on  the  ground 
before  going  in,  feeling  that  an  open  underground  cave,  with 
a  black  gaping  mouth,  was  dangerous.  But  the  shop-boy 
came  towards  her  to  serve  her. 

'Give  me  something  to   eat  with   my  bread,'  she  said, 
swaying  herself  a  little. 

'  Fried  fish  ?' 

'No.' 

'  A  little  dried  cod  with  sauce  ?' 

'  No,  no ' — with  disgust. 

'  A  morsel  of  tripe  ?' 

'  No,  no.' 

'  What    do    you   want,   then  ?'    the    boy   asked,    rather 
annoyed. 


THE  LOTTERY  DRA  WING  3 

'  I  would  like — I  would  like  three-halfpence-worth  of 
meat ;  we  will  eat  it  with  our  bread — Nannina  and  I,'  said 
she,  with  a  pretty  greedy  grimace. 

'  We  don't  cook  meat  to-day  ;  it  is  Saturday.  Only  tripe 
for  unbelievers  on  Saturday.' 

'  Well,  give  me  the  salt  cod,'  she  murmured,  withholding  a 
sigh.  Then  she  looked  into  the  Impresa  court  with  curiosity, 
while  the  youth  disappeared  into  the  black  depths  of  the 
cellar  to  get  the  cod.  A  little  ray  of  sunshine  coming  from 
the  top  turned  the  court  golden ;  every  now  and  then  some 
man  or  woman's  form  crossed  it.  Antonietta,  the  seamstress, 
went  on  staring,  humming  a  popular  dirge,  slightly  swaying 
on  her  hips. 

'  Here  is  the  cod,'  said  the  youth,  coming  back.  He  had 
put  it  in  a  small  plate ;  there  were  four  big  bits  falling  into 
flakes,  in  a  reddish  sauce  strongly  seasoned  with  pepper, 
the  sauce,  as  it  waved  about,  leaving  yellow  oily  marks  on 
the  edges  of  the  gray  plate. 

'  Here  is  the  money,'  Antonietta  murmured,  pulling  it  out 
of  her  pocket.  But  she  stood  with  the  plate  in  her  hand, 
looking  at  the  cod  falling  to  pieces  in  the  juice. 

'  If  I  were  to  take  a  terno,'  she  said,  as  she  went  on  her 
way,  holding  the  plate  carefully,  '  I  should  like  to  gratify 
my  wish  of  eating  meat  every  day.' 

'  Meat  and  macaroni,'  the  boy  called  back,  laughing. 

'  Just  so — meat  and  macaroni,'  the  seamstress  shouted 
triumphantly,  her  eyes  still  fixed  on  the  plate,  not  to  let  the 
sauce  fall. 

'  Morning  and  evening,'  called  out  the  boy  from  the  door- 
way. 

'  Morning  and  evening,'  Antonietta  answered  back. 

'  You  should  apply  to  that  youth,'  the  boy  shouted  gaily 
from  the  cellar,  indicating  the  Impresa  court  with  his  eyes. 

'  I'll  come  back  later,'  said  the  seamstress  from  the  corner 
of  the  street ;  '  I'll  bring  you  the  plate.' 

Again  the  Impresa  Lane  was  deserted  for  a  long  time. 
In  winter  it  is  much  frequented  at  mid-day  by  the  young 
students  coming  out  of  the  University,  who  take  the  short- 
cut to  the  Gesu  and  Toledo  ;  but  it  was  summer — the 
students  had  their  holidays.  Still,  every  now  and  then, 
as  the  hour  went  on,  someone  came  round  the  corner  from 
Santa  Chiara  or  Mezzocannone,  and  stopped  in  the  Impresa 
gateway — some  with  a  cautious  look,  others  feigning  in- 

i — 2 


4  THE  LAND  OF  COCKA  YNE 

difference.  One  of  the  first  had  been  a  shoeblack,  with  his 
block — a  lame  old  dwarf,  who  carried  it  on  his  raised  hips ; 
he  was  bent  in  two,  wrapped  up  in  an  old  great-coat,  green, 
stained  and  patched,  a  cap  with  no  peak  over  his  eyes. 

He  had  put  down  his  block  under  the  Impresa  portico, 
and  stretched  himself  out  on  the  ground,  as  if  awaiting 
customers ;  but  he  forgot  to  beat  those  two  dry  claps  with 
the  brush  on  the  wood  to  claim  it.  Deeply  engrossed  with  a 
long  list  of  ticket  numbers  in  his  hand,  the  old  dwarf's  yellow, 
distorted  face  was  transformed  by  intense  passion.  As  the 
hour  got  near,  people  went  on  passing  before  him,  and  a 
murmur  of  hoarse,  strident  Neapolitan  voices  rose  in  the 
court. 

A  man,  a  workman,  stopped  near  the  shoeblack ;  he  might 
have  been  thirty-five,  but  he  was  wan,  and  his  eyes  were 
dull ;  his  jacket  was  thrown  over  his  shoulder,  showing  a 
coloured  calico  shirt. 

'  Do  you  want  a  shine?'  the  bootblack  asked  mechanically, 
laying  down  his  list  of  numbers. 

'  Just  so,'  replied  the  other,  grinning ;  '  /  want  a  shine. 
If  I  had  another  halfpenny,  I  would  have  played  a  last 
ticket  at  Donna  Caterina's  to-day.' 

'  The  small  game  ?'  asked  the  shoeblack  in  a  whisper. 

'  Yes,  a  little  for  the  Government  and  a  little  to  Donna 
Caterina.  They  are  all  thieves — all  thieves,'  the  workman 
afterwards  added,  chewing  his  black  stump  of  a  cigar,  and 
shaking  his  head  with  a  look  of  great  distrust. 

'  You  have  taken  a  half-holiday  to-day  ?' 

'  I  never  go  there  on  Saturday,'  said  the  other,  giving  a 
sickly  smile.  'I  go  to  look  for  Fortune  ;  I  must  find  her 
some  Saturday  morning !' 

'  When  do  you  get  your  week's  money  ?' 

'  Eh !'  he  said,  shrugging  his  shoulders — 'generally  on 
Fridays :  I  have  nothing  to  get.' 

'  How  do  you  manage  to  gamble  ?' 

'  One  can  always  get  it  for  gambling.  Donna  Caterina's 
sister — she  of  the  small  game — lends  money.' 

'  Does  she  take  big  interest  ?' 

'  A  sou  for  each  franc  every  week.' 

'  Not  bad — not  bad,'  said  the  shoeblack,  with  a  convinced 
look. 

'  I  have  seventy-five  francs  to  give  her,'  said  the  glove- 
cutter.  '  Every  Monday  there  is  a  storm.  She  waits  for 


THE  LOTTERY  DRA  WING  5 

me  outside  the  factory  door,  shouting  and  swearing.  She  is 
really  a  witch,  Michele.  But  what  can  I  do  ?  One  day  or 
other  I  will  take  a  terno,  and  I  will  pay  her.' 

'What  will  you  do  with  the  rest  of  your  winnings?' 
Michele  asked,  laughing. 

4 1  know  what  I  will  do/  cried  Gaetano,  the  cutter.  '  In 
new  clothes,  a  pheasant's  feather  in  my  cap,  in  a  carriage 
with  bells,  we  will  all  go  to  amuse  ourselves  at  the  Due 
Pulcinelli,  at  Campo  di  Marte.' 

4  Or  at  Figlio  di  Pietro,  at  Posellipo.' 

4  At  Asso  di  coppe,  at  Portici.' 

4  Inn  after  inn.' 

4  Meat  and  macaroni.' 

4  And  Monte  di  Procida  wine.' 

4  Just  so,  one  only  lives  once,'  the  glove-cutter  philosophi- 
cally concluded,  pulling  his  jacket  up  on  his  shoulder. 

4 1  don't  get  into  debt,'  the  shoeblack  added,  after  a 
minute's  silence. 

4  Lucky  you !' 

4 1  would  get  no  one  to  lend  me  a  sou,  anyhow.  But 
I  play  everything.  I  have  no  family ;  I  can  do  what  I  like.' 

4  Lucky  you  !'  Gaetano  repeated,  with  a  troubled  look. 

4  Three  sous  for  a  sleeping-place,  five  or  six  for  food,' 
went  on  the  shoeblack,  4  and  who  says  a  word  to  me  ?  I 
did  not  want  to  marry ;  I  had  a  rage  for  gambling :  it 
stands  in  place  of  everything.' 

4  May  he  that  invented  marriage  be  hanged !'  blasphemed 
Gaetano,  getting  clay-colour. 

Four  o'clock  was  approaching,  and  the  Impresa  court 
filled  up  with  people.  In  that  space  of  a  hundred  metres 
was  a  crowd  of  common  people  pressed  together,  chattering 
in  a  lively  way  or  waiting  in  resigned  silence,  looking  up  to 
the  first-floor  at  the  covered  balcony,  where  the  lottery 
drawing  was  to  come  off.  But  all  was  shut  up  above, 
even  the  wooden  shutters,  behind  the  glass  of  the  great 
balcony.  As  other  people  came  up  continually,  the  crowd 
reached  to  the  wall  of  the  court  even.  Women  that  were 
pushed  back  had  squatted  on  the  first  steps  of  the  stair  ; 
others,  more  bashful,  hid  under  the  balcony  among  the 
pillars  that  held  it  up,  leaning  against  a  shut  stable  door. 
Another  woman,  still  young,  but  with  a  pallid,  worn, 
fascinating  face,  rather  strange,  melancholy  black  eyes, 
hollow-rimmed,  and  thick  black  locks  loose  on  her  neck, 


6  THE  LAND  OF  COCKA  YNE 

had  climbed  on  a  stone  left  in  the  courtyard,  perhaps  from 
the  time  the  palace  was  built  or  restored.  She  looked  very 
thin  in  her  dyed  black  gown,  that  went  in  folds  over  her 
lean  breast ;  she  was  swinging  one  foot  in  a  broken,  out-at- 
heel  shoe,  pulling  up  on  her  shoulders  now  and  then  a 
wretched  little  shawl,  dyed  also.  She  overlooked  the 
crowd,  gazing  at  it  with  downcast,  sad  eyes.  It  was 
almost  entirely  composed  of  poor  people — cobblers  who 
had  shut  up  their  bench  in  the  dens  they  lived  in,  had 
rolled  their  leather  aprons  round  their  waists :  in  shirt- 
sleeves, cap  over  the  eyes,  they  pondered  in  their  minds 
the  numbers  they  had  played,  slightly  moving  their  lips  ; 
servants  out  of  place,  who,  instead  of  trying  for  a  master, 
used  up  the  last  shilling  from  the  pawned  winter  coat, 
dreaming  of  the  terno  that  from  servants  would  make  them 
into  masters,  whilst  an  impatient  frown  crossed  the  gray 
faces,  where  the  beard,  no  longer  shaven,  grew  in  patches. 
There  were  hackney  coachmen,  who  had  left  their  cab  in  the 
care  of  a  friend,  brother,  or  son,  waiting  patiently,  hands 
in  pocket,  with  the  stolidity  of  a  cabman  used  to  waiting 
hours  for  a  hire ;  there  were  letters  of  furnished  rooms, 
hirers  of  servants,  who  in  summer,  with  all  the  strangers 
and  students  gone,  sat  pining  in  their  chairs  under  the  board 
that  forms  their  whole  shop,  at  the  corners  of  San  Sepolcro 
Lane,  Taverna  Penta,  Trinita  degli  Spagnuoli ;  having 
played  a  few  sous  taken  from  their  daily  bread,  they  came 
to  hear  the  lottery  drawn,  being  unemployed — and  lazy. 
There  were  hands  at  humble  Neapolitan  trades,  who, 
leaving  the  factory,  warehouse,  or  shop,  giving  up  their 
hard,  badly-paid  work,  clutching  in  their  worn-out  waist- 
coat pocket  the  five  sous  ticket,  or  bundle  of  numbers  at 
the  little  game,  had  come  to  pant  over  that  dream  that  might 
become  a  reality.  There  were  still  more  unlucky  people — 
that  is  to  say,  all  those  who  in  Naples  do  not  live  by  the 
day  even,  but  by  the  hour,  trying  a  hundred  trades,  good  at 
all,  but  unable,  unluckily,  to  find  safe  remunerative  work  ; 
unfortunates  without  home  or  shelter,  shamefully  torn  and 
dirty,  they  had  given  up  their  bread  that  day  to  play  a 
throw.  One  read  in  their  faces  the  double  marks  of  fasting 
and  extreme  abasement. 

Some  women  were  noticeable  among  the  crowd — slovenly 
women,  of  no  particular  age,  nor  beauty ;  servants  out  of 
place,  desperate  gamblers'  wives,  who  gambled  themselves, 


THE  L  O  TTER  Y  DRA  WING  7 

dismissed  workwomen,  and  among  them  all  Carmela's 
pale,  fascinating  face,  the  girl  seated  on  the  stone — a  faded 
face  with  big,  tired  eyes.  Later  on,  as  the  hour  for  the 
drawing  got  near,  and  the  noise  increased,  among  the  few 
gray  women's  faces  and  torn  calico  dresses,  discoloured 
from  too  frequent  washings,  quite  a  different  woman's  face 
showed.  She  was  a  tall,  strong  woman  of  the  lower  class, 
with  a  high-coloured  dark  face  ;  her  chestnut  hair  was  drawn 
back,  elaborately  dressed — the  fringe  on  her  narrow  forehead 
had  even  a  touch  of  powder  ;  and  heavy  earrings  of  uneven, 
round,  greeny-white  pearls  pulled  down  her  ears,  so  that  she 
had  had  to  secure  them  by  a  black  silk  string,  fearing  they 
would  break  the  lobes ;  a  gold  necklace  and  a  thick  gold 
medallion  hung  over  the  white  muslin  vest,  all  embroidered 
and  tucked  with  lace.  She  pulled  up  a  transparent  black  silk 
crape  shawl  on  her  shoulders  every  now  and  then,  to  show 
her  hands,  which  were  covered  with  thick  gold  rings  up  to 
the  second  joint.  Her  eye  was  grave  and  quiet,  with  a  slight 
look  of  quiet  audacity,  her  mouth  settled  and  severe ;  but 
on  going  through  the  crowd,  on  her  way  to  sit  on  the  third 
step  of  the  stair,  to  see  and  hear  better,  she  kept  that  bend 
of  the  head,  rather  coquettish  and  mysterious,  peculiar  to 
the  Neapolitan  lower  class,  and  the  swaying  of  her  body 
under  the  shawl  that  a  Naples  woman  dressed  in  the 
French  fashion  soon  loses.  Still,  in  spite  of  the  natural 
sympathy  that  womanly  figure  inspired  among  the  crowd, 
there  was  almost  a  hostile  murmur  and  something  like  an 
indignant  movement.  She  shrugged  her  shoulders  disdain- 
fully, and  sat  alone,  upright,  on  the  third  step,  keeping  the 
shawl  up  on  her  shoulders,  her  ring-laden  hands  crossed  in 
front.  The  murmur  went  on  here  and  there.  She  looked 
at  the  crowd  severely  twice  or  thrice — rather  proudly.  The 
voices  ceased  ;  the  woman's  eyelids  fluttered,  as  if  from 
gratified  pride. 

But,  finally,  over  all  the  others — over  Carmela,  with  her 
faded  face  and  great  sad  eyes ;  over  Donna  Concetta,  with 
her  ringed  fingers  and  powdered  fringe,  the  handsome, 
healthy,  rich  Concetta,  the  usurer,  sister  to  Donna  Caterina, 
the  holder  of  the  small  game — above  the  crowd  in  the  court, 
entrance,  and  street,  a  woman's  form  stood  out,  drawing 
at  least  one  look  from  the  people  gathered  together.  It 
was  the  woman  on  the  first-floor  of  the  Impresa  Palace, 
sitting  sideways  behind  the  balcony  railings ;  one  saw  her 


8  THE  LAND  OF  COCKA  YNE 

profile  bending  over  the  bright  steel  fittings  of  a  Singer 
sewing-machine,  lifting  her  head  now  and  then,  whilst  her 
foot,  coming  from  under  a  modest  blue-and-white  striped 
petticoat,  beat  evenly  on  the  iron  pedal,  regularly  rising 
and  falling.  Among  the  stir  of  voices,  the  conversations 
from  one  end  of  the  court  to  the  other,  and  stamping  of 
feet,  the  dull  quaver  of  the  sewing-machine  was  lost ;  but 
the  seamstress's  figure  stood  out  in  profile  on  the  balcony's 
gloomy  background,  her  hands  pushing  the  bit  of  white 
linen  under  the  machine  needle,  her  foot  untiringly  beating 
the  pedal,  her  head  rising  and  bending  over  her  work,  with 
no  ardour,  but  no  weariness,  evenly  on.  A  thin,  rather  pink 
cheek  was  shown  in  profile,  and  a  thick  chestnut  tress 
neatly  arranged  close  to  the  nape  of  the  neck,  the  corner 
of  a  fine  mouth,  and  the  shade  of  long  eyelashes  thrown 
on  the  cheeks,  could  also  be  seen.  During  the  hour  the 
crowd  was  pouring  into  the  court,  the  young  seamstress 
had  not  looked  down  twice,  giving  a  short  indifferent  glance 
and  lowering  her  head  again,  taking  the  piece  of  linen 
slowly  along  in  her  hands,  so  that  the  seam  should  be 
quite  straight.  Nothing  distracted  her  from  her  work — 
neither  angry  voice  or  lively  remarks,  nor  the  noise  or  the 
increasing  trampling  of  the  crowd  ;  she  had  never  looked  at 
the  covered  balcony,  where  in  a  short  time  the  drawings 
would  be  called  out.  The  people  from  below  stared  at  the 
delicate,  industrious  white  sewer,  but  she  went  on  with  her 
work  as  if  not  even  an  echo  of  that  half-covered,  half-open 
excitement  came  up  to  her ;  she  seemed  so  far  off,  so 
reserved,  so  wrapped  up  in  a  quite  detached,  different 
world,  that  one  could  fancy  her  more  a  statue  than  a  reality 
— more  of  an  ideal  figure  than  a  living  woman. 

But  all  at  once  a  long  shout  of  satisfaction  burst  out 
from  the  crowd  in  all  varieties  of  tone,  rising  to  the  most 
stridulent  and  going  down  to  the  deepest  note :  the  big 
balcony  on  the  terrace  had  opened.  The  people  waiting  in 
the  road  tried  to  get  in  at  the  entrance,  those  standing  there 
crushed  into  the  court ;  it  was  quite  a  squeeze,  all  faces 
were  raised,  seized  by  burning  curiosity  and  anguish.  A 
great  silence  followed.  Looking  keenly,  one  could  see  by 
the  moving  of  some  woman's  lips  that  she  was  praying, 
whilst  Carmela,  the  girl  with  the  attractive,  worn  face  and 
very  sad  black  eyes,  played  with  a  black  string  tied  round 
her  neck  that  had  a  medallion  of  our  Lady  of  Sorrows  and  a 


THE  LOTTER  Y  DRA  WING  9 

forked  bit  of  coral.  There  was  universal  silence  of  expecta- 
tion and  stupor.  On  the  terrace  two  Royal  Lottery  ushers 
had  arranged  a  long  narrow  table  covered  with  green  cloth, 
and  three  armchairs  behind  it  for  the  three  authorities  to 
sit  in — a  Councillor  of  the  Prefecture,  the  Lottery  Director 
at  Naples,  and  a  representative  of  the  municipality.  The 
urn  for  the  ninety  numbers  was  placed  on  another  little 
table.  It  is  a  big  urn,  made  of  transparent  metal,  lemon- 
shaped,  with  brass  bands  going  from  one  end  to  the  other, 
surrounding  it  as  the  meridian  line  goes  round  the  earth : 
these  shining  bands  make  it  strong  without  spoiling  its 
transparency.  The  urn  is  slung  in  the  air  between  two 
brass  pegs ;  a  metal  handle  by  one,  when  touched,  makes 
the  urn  twist  round  on  its  axis.  The  two  ushers  who  had 
brought  out  all  these  things  to  the  terrace  were  old,  rather 
bent,  and  sleepy-looking.  The  three  authorities,  in  great- 
coats and  tall  hats,  seemed  bored  and  sleepy  too,  sitting 
behind  the  table ;  the  Prefecture  Councillor,  with  his  deep 
black  dyed  moustaches,  was  drowsy  :  he  looked  as  if  he  had 
touched  them  in  in  brown  on  his  sleepy  dark  face ;  it  was 
the  same  with  the  secretary,  a  youth  with  a  dark  beard. 
These  folk  moved  slowly,  like  automatons,  so  that  a  common 
man  from  the  crowd  called  out,  '  Move  on !  move  on !' 
Silence  again,  but  a  great  wave  of  emotion  when  the  little 
boy  who  was  to  take  the  numbers  out  of  the  urn  appeared 
on  the  balcony. 

He  was  a  boy  dressed  in  the  gray  poor-house  uniform,  a 
poor  little  fellow  from  the  serraglio,  as  the  Naples  folk  call 
these  deserted  creatures'  asylum,  a  poor  serragliuolo  with  no 
father  nor  mother,  a  son  of  parents  who  from  cruelty  or 
want  had  deserted  their  offspring.  Helped  by  one  of  the 
ushers,  the  little  boy  put  on  a  white  woollen  tunic  over  his 
uniform  and  a  white  cap,  because  lottery  superstition 
requires  the  little  innocent  to  wear  innocence's  white  dress. 
He  climbed  nimbly  on  to  a  stool,  so  as  to  stand  as  high  as 
the  urn.  Below,  the  crowd  tossed  about :  '  Pretty  lad, 
pretty  lad  !'  '  May  you  be  blessed  !'  'I  commend  myself 
to  you  and  to  St.  Joseph  !'  '  The  Virgin  bless  your  hand  !' 
'Blessed,  blessed!'  'Holy  and  old — live  to  be  holy  and 
old !'  Everyone  said  something,  good  wishes,  blessings, 
requests,  pious  invocations,  prayers.  The  child  was  silent, 
looking  from  him,  his  little  hand  resting  on  the  urn's  metal 
net.  At  a  little  distance,  leaning  against  the  balcony  rail, 


io  THE  LAND  OF  COCKA  YNE 

was  another  serraglio  child,  very  serious,  in  spite  of  his  pink 
cheeks  and  fair  hair  cut  on  the  forehead.  It  was  the  little 
boy  who  was  to  take  out  the  numbers  next  Saturday  ;  he 
came  to  learn,  to  get  used  to  the  working  of  the  urn  and  the 
people's  shouts.  No  one  cared  about  him — it  was  the  one 
dressed  in  white  for  that  day  to  whom  all  the  numerous 
exclamations  were  addressed  ;  it  was  the  innocent  little  soul 
in  white  that  made  that  crowd  of  distracted  beings  smile 
tenderly,  that  brought  tears  to  the  eyes  of  those  who  hoped 
in  Fortune  only.  Some  women  had  raised  their  own  boys 
in  their  arms,  and  held  them  out  to  the  serragliuolo.  The 
tender,  agitated,  distressed  voices  went  on  :  '  He  looks  like 
a  little  St.  John,  really !'  '  May  you  always  find  grace,  if 
you  do  me  this  favour  !'  '  Mother's  darling,  how  sweet  he 
is !'  Suddenly  there  was  a  diversion.  One  of  the  ushers 
took  a  number  to  put  into  the  urn  ;  he  showed  it  unfolded  to 
the  people,  called  it  out  in  a  clear  voice,  and  passed  it  to 
the  three  authorities,  who  cast  a  distracted  eye  over  it. 
One  of  the  three,  the  Prefecture  Councillor,  shut  up  the 
number  in  a  round  box ;  the  second  usher  passed  it  to  the 
white-robed  child,  who  threw  it  quickly  into  the  urn,  into 
its  small  open  mouth.  At  every  number  that  was  called 
out  there  were  remarks,  shrieks,  grins,  and  laughter.  The 
people  gave  each  number  its  meaning,  taken  from  the  '  Book 
of  Dreams,'  or  from  the  '  Smorfia,'  or  that  popular  legend 
that  grows  without  books  or  pictures.  There  were  shouts  of 
laughter,  coarse  jokes,  frightened  or  hopeful  ejaculations — 
all  accompanied  by  a  dull  noise,  as  if  it  was  the  minor  chord 
of  the  tempest. 

'  Two.' 

'  A  baby  girl.' 

'  The  letter.' 

'  Bring  me  out  this  letter,  sir.' 

'  Five.' 

'  The  hand.' 

' ...  in  the  face  of  him  who  ill- wished  me.' 

'  Eight.' 

'  That  is  the  Virgin — the  Virgin.' 

But  as  every  tenth  number,  enclosed  within  its  little  round 
gray  box,  was  thrown  into  the  urn  by  the  serragliuolo,  the 
second  usher  shut  its  mouth  and  turned  the  handle,  giving 
it  a  spin  on  its  axis  that  made  the  numbers  roll  round, 
dance,  and  jump.  From  below  there  were  cries  of: 


THE  LOTTER  Y  DRA  WING  \  I 

'  Spin,  turn  it  round,  old  man.' 

'  Another  spin  for  me.' 

'  Give  me  full  measure.' 

The  Cabalists  did  not  speak,  they  did  not  even  look  at  the 
urn  spinning  :  the  innocent  babe  was  nothing  to  them,  the 
meaning  of  the  numbers,  nor  the  slow  lively  twirl  of  the  big 
urn ;  for  them  the  Cabal  is  everything,  the  obscure  but  still 
transparent  Cabal,  great,  powerful,  imperious  Fate  that 
knows  all,  and  does  all,  without  any  power,  human  or 
divine,  being  able  to  oppose  it.  They  alone  kept  silence, 
thoughtful,  absorbed,  disdaining  that  loud  popular  rejoicing, 
wrapped  up  in  a  spiritual,  mystical  world,  waiting  with  deep 
confidence. 

'  Thirteen.' 

' .  .  .  that  means  the  candles.' 

' .  .  .  the  thick  candle,  the  torch.  Let  us  put  out  the 
torch !' 

' .  .  .  put  it  out — put  it  out !'  the  chorus  echoed. 

' .  .  .  twenty-two.' 

' .  .  .  the  madman  !' 

1  ...  the  little  silly  !' 

' .  .  .  like  you.' 

'  .  .  .  like  me.' 

' .  .  .  like  him  that  plays  the  small  game — alia  bonafficiata.' 

The  people  got  excited.  Long  shivers  went  through  the 
crowd ;  it  swayed  about  as  if  it  was  moved  by  the  sea. 
Women  especially  got  nervous,  convulsive  ;  they  clutched 
the  babies  in  their  arms  so  hard  as  to  make  them  grow  pale 
and  cry.  Carmela,  seated  on  the  high  stone,  crumpled  the 
Virgin's  medallion  and  the  forked  coral  in  her  hand ;  the 
usurer,  Donna  Concetta,  forgot  to  pull  up  the  black  crape 
shawl,  which  fell  over  her  heavy  hips,  while  her  lips  gave  a 
slight  convulsive  flutter.  No  one  cared  any  more  about  the 
sewing-machine's  dull  quaver  nor  the  industrious  white 
sewer.  The  Naples  folks'  feverishness  got  higher  and  higher 
as  the  dream  that  was  to  become  a  reality  got  nearer,  getting 
a  livelier,  longer  sensation  when  a  popular,  a  lucky  number 
was  drawn. 

Thirty-three  ! 

These  are  Christ's  years  ! 

His  years. 

' .  .  .  this  conies  out.' 

' ...  it  will  not  come  out.' 


12  THE  LAND  OF  COCKAYNE 

.  .  .  you  will  see  that  it  will.' 
Thirty-nine  !' 

.  .  the  hanged  rogue  !' 

.  .  take  him  by  the  throat — by  the  throat !' 

.  .  so  I  ought  to  see  what  I  said.' 

.  .  squeeze  him — squeeze  him  !' 
Unmoved,  the  authorities,  the  ushers,  the  boy  in  white, 
went  on  with  their  work  as  if  all  this  popular  noise  did  not 
reach  their  ears  ;  only  the  other  infant,  new  to  all  that  extra- 
ordinary sight,  looked  down  from  the  railing,  stupefied,  pale, 
with  swollen  red  lips,  as  if  he  wanted  to  cry — an  uncon- 
scious, amazed  little  soul  amid  the  storm  of  deep  human 
passion.  The  business  on  the  platform  went  on  with  the 
greatest  calm  ;  as  every  new  tenth  number  was  put  into  the 
urn,  the  usher  made  it  twirl  longer,  making  the  little  balls 
jump  in  a  lively  way  inside  the  open  network.  Not  a  word 
nor  a  smile  was  exchanged  up  there :  the  fever  stayed  at  the 
height  of  the  people  in  the  court,  it  did  not  rise  to  the  first 
floor.  Down  there  the  gravest  people  now  laughed  con- 
vulsively, in  a  subdued  way,  shaking  their  heads  as  if  the 
infection  had  seized  them  in  its  most  violent  form.  The 
affair  seemed  to  be  hurrying  to  the  end.  Renewed  shouts 
received  seventy-five,  which  is  Punch's  number,  and  seventy- 
seven,  the  devil's ;  but  loud,  drawn-out  applause  saluted  the 
ninetieth,  the  last  number,  partly  because  it  was  the  last, 
also  ninety  is  a  very  lucky  number :  it  means  fear,  also  the 
sea ;  it  means  the  people  too  ;  it  has  five  or  six  other  mean- 
ings, all  popular.  All  in  the  court  cheered,  men,  women, 
and  children,  at  the  great  ninety,  which  is  the  omega  of  the 
lottery.  Then  all  at  once,  like  enchantment,  a  great  silence 
fell :  these  faces  and  forms  all  kept  motionless,  and  the 
great  excited  crowd  seemed  petrified  in  feelings,  words, 
gestures  and  expression. 

The  first  usher,  the  one  who  called  out  the  ninety  numbers, 
brought  a  long,  narrow  wooden  board  with  five  empty 
squares  to  the  railing,  such  as  bookmakers  use  on  a  race- 
course, whilst  the  other  gave  the  urn  its  last  twirl  with  all 
ninety  numbers  in  it.  The  board  was  turned  towards  the 
crowd.  Then  the  Councillor  rang  a  bell ;  the  urn  stopped  ; 
another  usher  put  a  bandage  over  the  white-clad  infant's 
eyes ;  he  slowly  put  his  little  hand  into  the  open  urn  and 
searched  for  a  minute  only,  quickly  drawing  out  a  ball  with 
a  number.  Whilst  the  ball  passed  from  hand  to  hand,  a 


THE  LOTTERY  DRA  WING  13 

deep,  dull,  anguished  sigh  came  out  of  those  petrified  bosoms 
down  there. 

'  Ten  !'  shouted  the  usher,  putting  it  quickly  in  the  first 
square.  A  murmur  and  agitation  among  the  crowd ;  all 
those  who  had  hopes  of  the  first  drawing  were  disappointed. 
Another  ring  of  the  bell ;  the  child  put  in  its  slender  hand 
the  second  time.  'Two!'  shouted  the  usher,  announcing 
the  number  taken  out  and  putting  it  into  the  second  square. 
Some  muttered  oaths  mingled  with  the  rising  murmur ;  all 
those  who  had  played  the  second  drawing  were  disappointed, 
and  those  who  had  hoped  to  take  four  numbers,  those  who 
had  played  the  great  terno  in  one,  greatly  feared  to  come  out 
badly,  so  much  so  that,  when  the  lad's  small  hand  went  into 
the  urn  the  third  time,  someone  called  out  in  anguish : 

'  Search  well ;  make  a  good  choice,  child.' 

'  Eighty-four  !'  shouted  the  usher,  calling  out  the  number 
and  placing  it  in  the  third  space.  Here  an  indignant  yell 
burst  out,  made  up  of  oaths,  lamentations,  angry  cries.  This 
third  number,  being  bad,  was  decisive  for  the  drawing  and 
the  gamblers.  With  eighty-four,  the  hopes  of  all  those  who 
had  played  the  first,  second,  and  third  drawing  were  frus- 
trated ;  all  those  who  had  played  the  five  sequence,  fourths, 
the  two  treys,  or  these  doubled,  which  is  the  hope  and  joy 
of  Naples  folk,  hope  and  desire  of  all  desperate  players,  and 
those  that  only  play  once  on  chance,  saw  they  had  missed  it. 
The  terno  is  the  essential  word  of  all  these  longings,  needs, 
necessities,  and  miseries.  A  chorus  of  curses  arose  against 
bad  luck,  evil  fate,  against  the  lottery  and  those  who  believe 
in  it,  against  the  Government,  against  that  bad  boy  with 
such  unlucky  hands.  '  Serragliuolo !  Sermgliuolo !'  was  shouted 
from  below,  to  insult  him,  and  fists  were  shaken  at  him. 
The  little  one  did  not  turn  to  look ;  he  stood  motionless, 
with  his  eyes  down.  Some  minutes  passed  between  the 
third  and  fourth  numbers ;  it  happened  so  every  week.  The 
third  number  brought  the  frightful  expression  of  the  infinite 
popular  disappointment.  '  Seventy-five,'  the  usher  said  in 
a  feebler  voice,  putting  the  number  drawn  in  the  fourth 
space.  Among  the  angry  voices  that  would  not  be  soothed, 
some  hisses  sounded  revengefully.  Abuse  poured  on  the 
child's  head,  but  the  greatest  curses  were  against  the  lottery, 
where  one  could  never  win,  never,  where  everything  is 
arranged  so  that  no  one  ever  wins,  especially  against  poor 
people.  '  Forty-three,'  the  usher  called  out  for  the  last 


I4  THE  LAND  OF  COCK  A  YNE 

time,  placing  the  fifth  and  last  number.  A  last  gust  of  rage 
among  the  people — nothing  more.  In  a  minute  all  the  cold 
lottery  machinery  disappeared  from  the  terrace :  the  children, 
the  three  authorities,  the  urn  with  the  eighty-five  numbers 
and  its  pedestal,  tables,  chairs,  and  ushers,  all  went  out  of 
sight,  the  glass  and  shutters  of  the  great  balcony  were  shut 
in  a  minute  ;  only  the  cruel  board  remained,  straight  against 
the  balustrade,  with  its  five  numbers— these,  these,  the  great 
misfortune  and  delusion ! 

Very  slowly  and  unwillingly  the  crowd  cleared  out  of  the 
court.  On  those  most  excited  by  gambling  passions  the 
wind  of  desolation  had  blown,  and  overthrown  them  all. 
They  felt  as  if  their  arms  and  legs  were  broken  ;  their  mouth 
had  a  bitter  taste  from  anger.  Those  who  that  morning  had 
played  all  their  money,  feeling  no  need  of  eating,  drinking, 
nor  smoking,  feeding  themselves  with  vivid  visions  of  Cock- 
aigne, dreaming  for  that  Saturday  evening,  Sunday,  and 
all  the  days  following,  quite  a  bellyful  of  fat,  rich  dinners, 
tasting  them  in  their  imagination,  held  their  hands  feebly  in 
their  empty  pockets.  One  could  read  in  their  desolate  eyes 
the  childish  physical  grief  of  the  first  pangs  of  hunger  ;  and 
they  had  not,  knew  they  could  not  get,  bread  to  quiet  their 
stomachs.  Others,  the  maddest,  fallen  from  the  height  of 
their  hopes  in  a  minute,  experienced  that  long  movement  of 
mad  anguish  in  which  people  will  not,  cannot,  believe  in  bad 
luck.  Their  eyes  had  that  wandering  look  that  sees  the 
shape  of  things  no  longer ;  their  lips  stammered  incoherent 
words.  It  was  these  desperate  fools  who  still  kept  their 
eyes  on  the  board  with  the  numbers,  as  if  they  could  not  yet 
convince  themselves  of  the  truth,  and  mechanically  com- 
pared them  with  the  long  list  of  their  tickets.  The  Cabalists, 
to  conclude,  did  not  go  away  yet ;  they  held  discussions 
among  themselves,  like  so  many  philosophers  or  logicians, 
still  wrapped  up  in  lottery  mathematics,  where  dwell  the 
figure,  the  cadenze,  the  triple,  the  algebraic  explanation  of  the 
quadrate  Maltese,  and  Rutilio  Benincasa's  immortal  lucubra- 
tions. But  with  those  who  went  away,  as  with  those  who 
stayed,  nailed  to  the  spot  by  their  excitement ;  those  who 
discussed  it  violently,  as  with  those  who  bent  their  heads, 
deadly  white,  courage  all  gone,  without  strength  to  move  or 
think,  the  form  of  the  desolation  varied,  but  the  substance 
of  it  was  the  same — deep,  intense,  making  the  inward  fibres 
bleed,  tending  to  destroy  the  very  springs  of  life. 


THE  L  OTTER  Y  DRA  WING  1 5 

Michele,  the  lame  shoeblack,  still  seated  on  the  ground, 
with  his  black  box  between  his  crooked  legs,  had  heard  the 
drawing  without  getting  up,  hidden  behind  people  who 
pressed  around  him.  Now,  while  the  crowd  was  slowly 
going  off,  he  hung  down  his  head,  and  the  yellow  shade  of 
his  rickety  old  face  got  green,  as  if  all  his  bile  had  gone  to 
his  brain. 

'  Have  you  got  nothing  ?'  asked  a  dull  voice  beside  him. 

He  raised  his  gray  eyes  with  pink  lids  mechanically  and 
saw  Gaetano,  the  glove-cutter,  who  showed  in  his  chalky 
face  the  depression  of  disappointed  hopes. 

'  No,  nothing,'  said  the  shoeblack  shortly,  lowering  his  eyes. 

'  There  is  nothing  for  me,  either.  If  you  have  a  few  sous 
for  a  combination,  old  fellow,  I  will  give  them  back  on 
Monday.' 

'  Where  could  I  get  them  ?  If  you  get  hold  of  ten,  we 
could  make  up  five  each,'  the  shoeblack  muttered  des- 
perately. 

'  Good-bye,  old  fellow !  Good-bye  !'  said  the  glove-cutter 
in  a  rough  voice. 

While  Gaetano  was  going  off  under  the  gateway,  Donna 
Concetta  came  alongside  of  him,  slow  and  grave,  her  eyes 
down,  the  gold  chain  waving  on  her  breast  and  ringed  fingers. 

'Have  you  won  nothing,  Gaetano?'  she  asked  with  a 
slight  smile. 

'I  have  been  hit  by  an  arrow!'  shouted  he,  provoked  to 
be  so  near  the  usurer,  who  reminded  him  of  all  his  wretched- 
ness, annoyed  by  her  question  at  such  a  moment. 

'  All  right — all  right,'  she  returned  coldly.  '  We  see  each 
other  on  Monday — don't  forget.' 

'  I  don't  forget ;  I  keep  you  in  my  heart  like  the  Virgin,' 
he  called  out,  alongside  of  her,  in  a  hissing  voice. 

She  shook  her  head  as  she  went  off.  She  did  not  come 
there  for  her  own  interests,  because  she  never  gambled ;  nor 
even  to  worry  some  of  her  debtors,  like  Gaetano.  She  came 
in  her  sister's  interest,  Donna  Caterina,  the  holder  of  the 
small  game,  for  she  dared  not  show  in  public.  Donna  Caterina 
told  her  sister  which  numbers  she  dreaded  most — that  is  to 
say,  those  she  had  played  most  on,  for  which  she  would  have 
to  pay  the  largest  sums.  Then  Donna  Concetta  sent  off  a 
lad  to  her  sister,  who  quickly  made  off,  so  as  to  pay  no  one. 
Three  times  already  she  had  gone  bankrupt  so,  with  the 
gamblers'  money  in  her  pocket.  She  had  fled  once  to  Santa 


16  THE  LAND  OF  COCKA  YNE 

Maria,  at  Capua,  once  to  Gragnano,  once  to  Nocera  dei 
Pagani,  staying  there  two  months.  She  had  had  the 
courage  to  come  back  and  face  the  cheated  gamblers,  using 
audacity  with  some  and  giving  a  few  sous  to  others,  begin- 
ning the  game  again,  while  the  robbed,  cheated,  and  disap- 
pointed gamblers  came  back  to  her,  incapable  of  denouncing 
her,  seized  by  the  fever  again,  or  kept  in  awe  by  Donna 
Concetta,  to  whom  they  all  owed  money.  So  the  concern 
went  on.  The  money  passed  from  one  sister  to  another — 
from  the  one  who  held  the  bank  and  knew  how  to  fail  in 
time,  to  the  money-lender  who  was  daring  enough  to  face 
the  worst-intentioned  of  her  debtors.  Nor  was  her  flight 
looked  on  as  a  crime,  as  cheating,  by  Donna  Caterina  and 
her  customers ;  for  did  not  the  Government  do  the  same 
thing,  perhaps,  on  a  larger  scale  ?  A  gift  of  six  million 
francs  has  been  settled  for  each  drawing  for  every  ruota  of 
eight :  when,  by  a  very  rare  combination,  the  winnings  go 
above  six  millions,  does  not  the  Government  fail  too,  making 
the  entire  profits  smaller  ? 

But  that  day  there  was  no  need  for  Donna  Caterina  to 
fail,  to  make  off;  the  numbers  drawn  were  so  bad,  perhaps 
not  one  of  her  clients  had  won  ;  and  Donna  Concetta  climbed 
up  the  Chiara  way  very  easily,  not  hurrying  at  all,  knowing 
it  was  a  desolate  Saturday  for  all  gambling  Naples,  getting 
ready  for  her  battle  of  usury  on  Monday.  All  these  unhappy 
creatures  with  broken  hopes  passed  near  her ;  she  shook 
her  head  wisely  over  human  aberrations,  and  clutched  the 
hem  of  her  crape  shawl  in  her  ringed  fingers.  A  woman 
who  was  coming  quickly  down  the  street,  dragging  a  little 
boy  and  girl  behind  her,  and  carrying  a  baby,  touched  her 
in  passing  on  her  way  into  the  Impresa  court,  where  some 
people  were  still  lingering.  She  was  very  poorly  dressed ; 
her  calico  skirt  was  so  frayed  and  dirty  it  filled  one  with 
pity  and  disgust,  and  she  had  a  ravelled  woollen  shawl 
round  her  neck ;  her  face  was  so  lean  and  worn,  her  teeth 
so  black,  and  hair  so  sparse,  that  the  children,  who  were 
neither  ragged  nor  dirty,  looked  as  if  they  did  not  belong  to 
her.  The  sucking  child  only  was  rather  slight — it  laid  its 
head  on  her  shoulder  to  sleep ;  but  the  poor  thing  was  so 
agitated  she  did  not  notice  it.  Seeing  Carmela,  her  sister, 
still  seated  on  the  high  stone,  her  hands  loose  in  her  lap, 
and  head  sunk  on  the  breast,  all  alone,  as  if  petrified  in 
speechless  grief,  she  went  up  to  her,  and  said : 


THE  LOTTERY  DRA  WING  17 

'  Carmela !' 

'Good-day,  Annarella,'  said  Carmela,  starting,  giving  a 
sickly  smile. 

'  Are  you  here  too  ?'  she  asked  in  a  sad,  surprised  tone. 

'  Yes,  I  came,'  Carmela  answered,  with  a  resigned  gesture. 

'  Have  you  seen  my  husband,  Gaetano  ?'  Annarella  asked 
anxiously,  letting  the  baby's  head  slide  from  her  shoulder 
to  her  arm,  so  that  it  could  sleep  more  comfortably. 

Carmela  raised  her  big  eyes  to  her  sister's  face,  but  seeing 
her  so  dishevelled  and  ugly  from  privation  and  misery,  so 
old  already,  so  doomed  to  illness  and  death,  asking  the 
question  so  despairingly,  she  dared  not  tell  her  the  truth. 
Yes,  she  had  seen  her  brother-in-law  Gaetano,  the  glove- 
cutter  ;  she  had  first  seen  him  trembling  and  anxious,  thin, 
pale  and  downcast,  but  she  felt  too  sorry  for  her  sister,  the 
delicate,  sleeping  baby,  and  the  other  two  who  were  gazing 
around  them,  and  she  lied. 

'  I  have  not  seen  him  at  all.' 

'  He  must  have  been  here,'  Annarella  muttered  in  her 
rough  drawl. 

'  I  assure  you  he  was  not  here,  really.' 

'  You  will  not  have  seen  him,'  Annarella  repeated,  obsti- 
nate in  her  sad  incredulity.  '  How  could  he  not  come  ? 
He  comes  here  every  Saturday.  He  might  not  be  at  home 
with  his  little  ones ;  he  might  not  be  at  the  glove  factory, 
where  he  can  earn  bread ;  but  he  can't  be  anywhere  else 
than  here  on  Saturday  to  hear  the  numbers  come  out :  here 
is  his  ruling  passion  and  his  death.' 

'  He  plays  a  lot,  doesn't  he  ?'  said  Carmela,  who  had 
grown  pale  and  had  tears  in  her  eyes. 

'  All  that  he  can  spare  and  more  than  he  has  got.  We 
might  live  very  well,  wiihout  asking  anything  from  anyone  ; 
but  instead,  with  his  bonafficiata,  we  are  full  of  debts  and 
mortifications ;  we  only  eat  now  and  then,  when  I  bring  in 
something.  These  poor  little  things  !' 

Her  voice  was  so  broken  with  maternal  agony  that 
Carmela's  tears  fell,  overcome  by  infinite  pity.  Now  they 
were  almost  alone  in  the  court. 

'  Why  do  you  come  to  hear  this  lottery  drawn  ?'  Annarella 
asked,  suddenly  enraged  against  all  those  that  play. 

'What  am  I  to  do  ?'  said  the  other  in  her  sweet,  broken 
voice.  '  You  know  I  would  like  to  see  you  all  happy,  mother, 
and  you,  Gaetano,  your  babies,  and  my  lover  Raffaele — 


1 8  THE  LAND  OF  COCK  A  YNE 

and  somebody  else.  You  know  your  cross  is  mine,  that  I 
have  not  an  hour's  peace  thinking  of  what  you  suffer.  So 
all  that  is  over  of  my  earnings  I  play :  the  Lord  must  bless 
me  some  day  or  other.  I  must  get  a  terno  then ;  then  I'll 
give  it  all  to  you.' 

'  Poor  sister !'  said  Annarella,  with  melancholy  tenderness. 

'  That  day  must  come — it  must,'  she  whispered  passion- 
ately, as  if  speaking  to  herself,  as  if  she  already  saw  that 
happy  day. 

'  May  an  angel  pass  and  say  amen,'  Annarella  murmured, 
kissing  her  baby's  forehead.  'Where  can  Gaetano  be?' 
she  went  on,  care  coming  back. 

'  Say  truly,'  begged  Carmela,  getting  down  from  the  stone 
on  her  way  off,  'you  have  nothing  to  give  the  children 
to-day  ?' 

'  Nothing,'  was  the  answer  in  that  feeble  voice. 

'Take  this  half-franc,  take  it,'  said  the  other,  pulling  it 
out  of  her  pocket  and  giving  it  to  her. 

'  God  reward  you.' 

They  looked  at  each  other  with  such  mutual  pity  that  only 
shame  of  the  passers-by  kept  them  from  bursting  into  sobs. 

'  Good-bye !' 

'  Good-bye,  Carmela !' 

The  suffering  girl  kissed  the  baby  softly.  Annarella,  with 
the  languid  step  of  a  woman  who  has  had  too  many  children 
and  worked  too  hard,  went  off  by  the  Santa  Chiara  cloister, 
pulling  her  two  other  little  ones  behind  her.  Carmela, 
pulling  her  discoloured  shawl  round  her,  dragging  her  down- 
at-heel  shoes,  went  down  towards  Banchi  Nuovi.  It  was  just 
there  a  cleanly-dressed  youth,  his  trousers  tight  at  the  knees 
and  wide  as  bells  over  the  ankle,  with  a  neat  jacket,  and  hat 
over  one  ear,  stopped  her  with  the  look  of  his  clear,  cold,  light- 
blue  eyes,  biting  lips,  as  red  as  a  girl's,  under  his  fair  little 
moustache.  Stopping  before  she  spoke  to  him,  Carmela 
looked  with  such  intense  passion  on  the  young  fellow  she 
seemed  to  wish  to  enfold  him  in  an  atmosphere  of  love.  He 
did  not  seem  to  notice  it. 

'  Well,  have  you  won  anything  ?'  he  asked  in  a  hissing 
little  ironical  voice. 

'  Nothing,'  said  she,  opening  her  arms  desolately.  She 
held  down  her  head  so  as  not  to  weep,  looking  at  the  point  of 
her  shoes,  which  had  lost  their  varnish  and  showed  the  dirty 
lining  through  a  split. 


THE  LOTTERY  DRA  WING  19 

'  How  do  you  account  for  that  ?'  the  young  fellow  cried 
out  angrily.  '  A  woman  is  always  a  woman  !' 

'  Is  it  my  fault  if  the  numbers  won't  come  out  ?'  the  love- 
lorn girl  said  humbly  and  sadly. 

'  You  should  look  out  for  the  good  ones.  Go  to  Father 
Illuminate  that  knows  them,  and  only  tells  women ;  go  to 
Don  Pasqualino,  he  that  the  good  spirits  help  to  find  out 
the  right  numbers.  Get  it  out  of  your  head,  my  girl,  that 
I  can  marry  a  ragged  one  like  you.' 

'  I  know — I  know  !'  she  muttered  humbly.  '  Say  no 
more  about  it.' 

'  You  seem  to  forget  it.  Masses  are  not  sung  without 
money.  Let  us  say  good-bye.' 

'  Won't  you  come  this  evening  ?'  she  dared  to  ask. 

'  I  have  something  to  do.  I  must  go  with  a  friend.  Send 
me  a  couple  of  francs.' 

'  I  have  only  one,'  she  exclaimed,  quite  red  and  mortified, 
taking  it  out  of  her  pocket. 

'  May  you  die  in  want !'  he  cursed,  chewing  his  stump  of 
Naples  cigar.  '  Give  it  here !  I  will  try  to  arrange  my 
affairs  better.' 

'  Won't  you  pass  by  the  house?'  she  begged  with  her  eyes. 

'  If  I  do  pass,  it  will  be  very  late.' 

'It  does  not  matter;  I'll  wait  for  you  on  the  balcony,' 
she  said,  persisting  in  her  humiliation. 

'  I  can't  stop.' 

'  Well,  give  a  whistle.  I'll  hear  you,  and  sleep  quieter, 
Raffaele.  What  trouble  will  it  be  to  whistle  in  passing  ?' 

'  All  right,'  he  agreed  indulgently.     '  Good-bye,  Carmela!' 

'  Good-bye,  Raffaele  !' 

She  stopped  to  look  at  him  as  he  went  away  quickly  in 
the  direction  of  Madonna  dell'  Aiuto.  The  patent-leather 
shoes  creaked  as  the  youth  walked  in  the  proud  way  peculiar 
to  the  lower-class  guappi. 

1  May  the  Virgin  bless  every  step  you  take,'  the  girl  said 
to  herself  tenderly  as  she  went  off.  But  as  she  went  along 
she  felt  discouraged  and  weak.  All  the  bitterness  of  that 
deceptive  day,  the  sorrow  she  bore  for  others'  grief — for  her 
mother,  a  servant  at  sixty ;  for  her  sister,  who  had  no 
bread  for  her  children  ;  her  brother-in-law,  who  was  going 
to  ruin  ;  her  affianced,  that  she  would  have  liked  to  make 
rich  and  happy  as  a  lord,  and  who  never  had  a  franc  in 
his  pockets — all  these  sorrows,  and  still  deeper  ones,  the 

2 — 2 


20  THE  LAND  OF  COCKA  YNE 

greatest  of  all,  the  most  afflicting  grief,  her  own  powerless- 
ness,  poured  into  her  mind,  her  whole  being.  It  was  not 
enough  for  her  to  work  at  that  nauseating  trade  at  the 
tobacco  factory  for  seven  days  a  week  ;  that  she  had  not  a 
decent  dress  to  wear,  nor  a  pair  of  whole  shoes,  so  that  she 
was  coldly  looked  on  at  the  factory.  She  fasted  four  times 
a  week  to  give  her  mother  a  franc,  Raffaele  two,  her  sister 
Annarella  half  a  franc ;  what  was  over  went  to  the  lottery. 
It  was  no  use,  she  never  could  do  anything  for  those  she 
loved;  her  hard  work,  wretchedness,  hunger,  did  no  one 
any  good. 

She  felt  so  miserable  as  she  went  down  San  Giovanni 
Maggiore  steps  at  Mezzocannone,  getting  nearer  as  she  was 
to  her  saddest  charge,  that  she  could  have  killed  herself 
for  being  so  helpless  and  useless.  Still,  she  went  on  into 
an  out-of-the-way  court  in  the  Mercanti,  that  looked  like  a 
servants'  yard,  then  stopped  and  leant  against  the  wall  as 
if  she  could  go  no  further.  It  was  a  dirty  place,  with 
greasy  water,  fruit-skins,  and  a  woman's  broken  old  hat 
thrown  into  a  corner.  Three  windows  of  the  first-floor  had 
half-open  green  jalousies,  just  letting  in  a  ray  of  light — mean 
little  windows  and  faded  jalousies,  on  which  dust,  rain,  and 
the  sun  had  left  their  mark  ;  then  a  little  doorway,  with  a 
damp  step  broken  to  bits,  and  a  narrow  black  passage  like 
a  gutter.  Carmela  looked  inside,  her  eyes  wide  open  from 
curiosity  and  fear.  Rather  an  old  woman,  a  servant,  came 
out,  holding  up  her  skirt  not  to  dirty  it  in  the  gutter. 
Carmela  knew  her,  evidently,  for  she  turned  to  her  frankly : 

'  Donna  Rosa,  will  you  call  Filomena  ?' 

The  woman  looked  to  see  who  it  was ;  then,  without 
going  into  the  house  again,  she  called  from  the  courtyard 
towards  the  first-floor  windows  : 

'  Filomena !  Filomena  !' 

'  Who  is  it  ?'  a  hoarse  voice  answered  from  inside. 

'  Your  sister  wants  you — come  down.' 

'  I  am  coming,'  said  the  voice  more  gently. 

'  Thanks,  Donna  Rosa,'  said  Carmela. 

'  Glad  to  serve  you,'  said  the  other  briefly  as  she  went  off. 

Filomena  kept  her  waiting  two  or  three  minutes ;  then  a 
regular  beat  of  wooden  heels  came  along  the  passage,  and 
she  appeared.  She  wore  a  white  muslin  skirt,  with  a  high 
flounce  of  white  embroidery,  a  cream  woollen  bodice,  much 
trimmed  with  knots  of  velvet  ribbon  at  the  wrists  and  waist. 


THE  LOTTERY  DRAWING  21 

She  had  a  pink  chenille  shawl  round  her  neck ;  patent- 
leather  shoes  with  high  heels,  and  red  silk  stockings  showed 
under  the  skirt.  In  face  she  was  like  both  her  sisters,  but 
her  well-dressed  hair,  with  light  shell  pins,  and  the  rouge 
on  her  colourless  cheeks,  made  one  forget  the  likeness 
to  Annarella,  and  made  her  much  more  attractive  than 
Carmela.  The  two  sisters  did  not  kiss  nor  shake  hands, 
but  they  gave  each  other  so  intense  a  look  that  it  sufficed  for 
everything. 

'  How  are  you  ?'  asked  Carmela  in  a  trembling  voice. 

'  I  am  well,'  said  Filomena,  shaking  her  head,  as  if  her 
health  did  not  matter.  '  How  is  mother  ?' 

'  Just  as  an  old  woman  always  is.  ...    Poor  mother  !' 

'  How  is  Annarella  ?' 

'  She  is  full  of  trouble.  ..." 

« Wretched,  eh  ?' 

'  Yes,  she  is  wretched.' 

They  both  sighed  deeply  as  they  looked  at  each  other  ;  a 
blush  and  a  pallor  altered  their  faces. 

'  I  bring  you  bad  news  to-day,  too,  Filomena,'  Carmela 
said  at  last. 

'  Have  you  won  nothing  ?'  Filomena  asked. 

'  No,  nothing  !' 

'  My  luck  is  bad,'  Filomena  said.  '  I  have  made  many  vows 
to  the  Virgin — not,  indeed,  to  the  Immaculate  one  ;  I  am  not 
even  worthy  to  name  her — but  to  our  Lady  of  Sorrows, 
who  understands  and  pities  my  disgrace ;  but  nothing  has 
come.' 

'  Our  Lady  of  Sorrows  will  grant  us  this  grace,'  Carmela 
said  softly.  '  Let  us  hope  that  next  Saturday ' 

'  We  will  hope  so,'  the  other  answered  humbly. 

'  Good-bye,  Filomena !' 

'  Good-bye,  Carmela !' 

Filomena  turned  her  back  and  disappeared  into  the 
passage,  her  wooden  heels  making  her  steps  rhythmical ; 
then  Carmela  was  going  to  rush  after  her  to  call  her,  but 
she  was  already  in  the  house.  The  girl  went  off,  wrapping 
herself  convulsively  in  her  shawl,  biting  her  lips  not  to  sob. 
All  the  other  bitternesses — all,  even  going  without  bread — 
were  nothing  in  comparison  to  what  she  left  behind  :  that 
came  by  itself,  a  constant  poison,  an  eternal  shame,  to  her 
heart. 

*  *  *  *  ¥ 


22  THE  LAND  OF  COCKA  YNE 

At  half-past  five  the  Impresa  court  was  quite  empty  and 
silent ;  no  one  came  in,  not  even  to  look  at  that  solitary 
board  with  the  five  numbers :  they  had  already  been  put  up 
at  all  the  lottery-shops  in  Naples ;  there  was  a  group  of 
people  before  each,  all  through  the  town.  No  one  went 
into  the  Impresa  court ;  the  crowd  would  only  come  back 
in  seven  days.  Then  there  was  a  noise  of  footsteps.  It  was 
the  lottery  usher,  leading  the  two  poor-house  children  by  the 
hand — the  one  who  had  drawn  the  numbers,  and  he  who  was 
to  draw  them  next  Saturday.  The  usher  was  taking  them 
back  to  the  asylum,  where  he  would  leave  the  twenty  francs, 
the  weekly  payment  the  Royal  Lottery  gives  to  the  child 
that  draws  the  numbers.  The  two  boys  trod  on  each  other's 
heels  behind  the  usher,  chattering  gaily.  The  white  sewer, 
working  at  her  machine,  raised  her  head  and  smiled  at  them. 
Then  she  began  to  beat  her  foot  on  the  pedal  and  pull  the 
bit  of  linen  straight  under  the  needle  ;  she  went  on  quietly, 
indefatigably,  a  pure  humble  image  of  labour. 


CHAPTER  II 

AGNESINA    FRAGALA'S    CHRISTENING 

'  AGNESINA  FRAGALA,  papa's  lovely  daughter,'  said  the 
young  father,  leaning  over  the  brass  cradle  that  shone  like 
gold,  holding  open  the  lace  curtains  with  rose-coloured 
ribbons,  and  petting  with  words,  glances,  and  smiles  the 
pink  new-born  babe  that  was  placidly  sleeping.  '  Agnesina, 
Agnesina,'  he  went  on  saying  playfully,  '  I  think  you  are 
very  pretty.' 

1  Be  quiet,  Cesare  ;  you  will  wake  the  baby,'  the  mother 
said  in  a  whisper,  from  the  toilet-glass  she  was  sitting  at. 

'  She  will  have  to  be  wakened  later  on,  at  any  rate  ;  ought 
we  not  to  show  her  to  our  guests  ?' 

'  Yes ;  I  just  hope  she  won't  begin  screaming  in  the 
drawing-room !'  the  young  mother  replied,  smiling,  half 
from  nervous  fears,  half  from  motherly  pride. 

'  Bah  !'  said  the  young  father,  leaving  the  cradle  and 
coming  near  to  his  wife.  '  The  guests  will  be  taken  up 
eating  cakes,  sweets,  and  ices.  You  will  see  a  gourmand- 
izing,  Luisella  !' 

The  light  edifice  of  Luisa  Fragala's  intensely  black  hair 
was  skilfully  and  prettily  arranged ;  some  curls  shaded  her 
short  brown  forehead,  with  its  black  eyebrows  in  the  youth- 
ful oval  face  ;  and  the  long  Eastern  eyes  of  sparkling  gray, 
soft  and  piquant,  the  rather  long,  broad,  though  well-shaped 
nose,  and  baby  mouth,  pink  as  a  carnation,  had  a  charm  of 
youth  and  freshness  that  made  her  still  enamoured  husband 
smile  with  pleasure. 

Cesare  Fragala  was  young  and  handsome,  too — rather 
effeminately  handsome,  perhaps  ;  his  skin  was  as  white  as  a 
woman's  ;  his  chestnut  hair  curled  all  over  up  to  the  temples, 
showing  in  places  the  white  skin  underneath ;  his  face  was 
round,  rather  boyish  still,  in  spite  of  his  being  twenty-eight ; 
but  his  close-shaven  cheeks  had  a  warm  Southern  pallor 
that  was  quite  manly,  and  a  thick  curly  moustache  corrected 


24  THE  LAND  OF  COCKA  YNE 

that  effeminate,  boyish  look.  Both  of  them  of  burgher  rank, 
of  no  degenerate  race,  they  had  the  characteristics  of  Nea- 
politan youth.  The  man  was  strong,  but  indolent  ;  good- 
looking  and  rather  inclined  to  care  for  his  appearance  ;  his 
softness  was  visibly  mixed  with  roguishness,  from  the  con- 
trasts in  his  face,  where  a  coarse  look  was  tempered  by  good- 
nature. The  woman,  dark  and  elegant,  with  that  blood 
that  seems  to  have  dull  flashes,  that  resoluteness  of  will  in 
the  profile  and  chin  that  shows  a  secret  latent  force  in  a 
woman's  heart,  ready  for  passion  and  sacrifice. 

The  surroundings  were  like  themselves,  from  the  rather 
vulgar  luxury  of  pink  and  cream  brocade  that  covered  the 
furniture  and  the  bed,  the  French  paper  on  the  walls  of 
much  the  same  design,  the  toilet-glass  draped  in  white  lace 
— precious  work  done  by  the  bride's  own  hands  before  the 
wedding — to  the  great  wardrobe  of  dark  wood,  with  gold 
lines  and  three  looking-glass  doors,  the  height  of  luxury  at 
that  time  ;  from  the  numerous  images  of  saints — Saint  Louis 
in  silver,  the  face  in  wax ;  a  Saint  Cesare  of  stucco  in  a  monk's 
habit,  with  rosaries,  reliquaries,  and  Easter  candles,  form- 
ing a  trophy,  on  each  side  of  the  bed — up  to  the  silver  lamp, 
lighted,  before  the  Infant  Jesus,  in  a  niche  ;  and  in  the  same 
conjugal  apartment,  from  plebeian  tenderness,  and  that  strong 
patriarchal  feeling  of  Neapolitans,  was  the  cradle,  gay  with 
ribbons,  where  the  little  one  of  a  month  old  was  sleeping. 
Everything  was  striking,  even  their  clothes.  Cesare  Fragala, 
expecting  his  guests  shortly,  had  on  his  coat  already, 
a  handkerchief  stuck  in  his  shirt,  and  his  curly  hair 
smooth  by  dint  of  hard  brushing ;  but  his  watch-chain 
was  too  bright,  his  studs  too  large,  and  his  necktie  was 
white  silk  instead  of  white  batiste.  Luisa  looked  very 
pretty  in  her  yellow  silk,  with  a  white  muslin  wrapper  over 
it  while  her  hair  was  done,  but  she  sparkled  too  much 
from  diamonds  in  her  ears,  on  her  neck,  and  on  her  arms. 
Just  then  the  hair- dresser  put  a  brilliant  star  in  front  as  a 
finish. 

'  Is  nothing  more  needed  ?'  she  asked,  rather  thinking  she 
had  too  few  ornaments. 

'  No,'  said  the  hair-dresser  decisively  ;  '  the  fewer  things 
put  in  the  hair,  the  better.' 

'  Do  you  think  so  ?' 

'  Let  yourself  be  guided  by  one  who  knows  his  trade,'  the 
artist  added,  gathering  up  his  combs  and  curling-irons. 


AGNESINA  FRAG  ALA'S  CHRISTENING  25 

'  You  look  very  nice,'  the  husband  whispered,  on  an  in- 
quiring glance  from  his  wife.  He  looked  at  her  tenderly, 
carefully,  to  see  if  anything  was  wanting.  '  If  my  combina- 
tion comes  off,'  Cesare  .added,  whilst  the  barber  took  leave 
silently,  so  as  not  to  waken  the  baby,  after  getting  five 
francs  and  one  more  as  a  tip — '  if  my  combination  comes  off, 
Luisella,  I  will  buy  you  a  string  of  diamonds  for  your  neck.' 

'  What  combination  are  you  speaking  of?'  she  asked,  as 
she  put  some  powder  on  her  bare  arms.  She  frowned,  with 
a  woman's  sudden  suspicion  of  all  affairs  she  does  not  know 
about. 

'  I  will  tell  you  afterwards,'  he  said,  stammering. 

'Tell  me  now,'  she  demanded,  standing  with  her  long 
gloves  in  her  hand. 

'There  is  nothing  really  yet  to  tell,  Luisella,'  he  said, 
rather  put  out  at  having  let  out  something. 

'  Promise  me  never  to  decide  on  anything  without  asking 
me  first,'  she  said,  raising  one  hand. 

'  I  promise,'  he  said  with  deep  sincerity. 

She  was  appeased,  and  sat  down  reassured,  putting  on 
her  gloves,  while  her  husband  stood  before  the  looking- 
glass  twirling  the  points  of  his  moustache,  smiling  at  his 
own  image  and  at  life.  The  Fragala  family  counted  up  no 
less  than  eighty  years  of  commercial  prudence  and  rising 
fortunes.  Cesare's  grandfather  had  begun  with  a  wretched 
shop  in  Purgatorio  ad  Arco  Street  in  the  Pendino  quarter, 
rather  worse,  said  the  envious,  for  he  was  a  wandering 
salesman  of  cakes  at  a  halfpenny  each,  heaped  on  a  wooden 
board  carried  on  his  head,  under  the  arm,  or  by  a  leather 
band  round  the  neck.  In  fact,  either  on  the  board  or  in 
that  shop,  these  sweets  were  made  of  middling  flour,  sugar 
of  third  quality,  eggs  of  doubtful  freshness,  and  very  often 
cooked  in  rancid  lard,  filled  oftener  with  apples  or  quinces 
roasted  under  ashes  than  peach  or  black-cherry  preserve. 
But  what  did  it  matter  ?  All  Southerners,  men  and  women, 
young  and  old,  love  sweets,  spicy  cakes  and  biscuits 
sprinkled  with  aniseed  and  sugar ;  the  pastry  at  a  half- 
penny appeared  and  disappeared  in  Fragala's  shop,  also 
sticky  coloured  caramels  and  cakes  called  ancinetti.  Grand- 
father Fragala  soon  managed,  by  dint  of  heaping  up  half- 
pence, to  produce  pastry  at  three-halfpence,  the  so-called 
sfogliatella,  of  which  there  are  two  qualities — the  riccia,  broad, 
thin,  and  flat,  that  falls  into  fine  flakes,  crackling  under  the 


26  THE  LAND  OF  COCKA  YNE 

teeth,  whilst  the  cream  in  it  melts  on  the  tongue ;  and  the 
frolla,  thick  and  fat,  two  fingers'  width  of  pastry  that  powders 
as  you  eat  it,  a  thick  layer  of  cream  inside  that  covers  your 
lips  and  jaws.  It  is  true  Grandfather  Fragala  was  accused 
of  mixing  a  lot  of  dirty  noxious  ingredients  in  his  sfogliatella : 
starch,  gum,  raw  sugar,  beef- fat,  strong  glue,  and  even  bran. 
But  what  did  it  matter  ?  On  Sundays  and  all  the  other 
appointed  feasts  the  sfogliatella  sold  like  bread,  or,  rather, 
more  so,  from  nine  to  two  o'clock  in  the  afternoon ;  then 
Fragala  shut  his  shop,  because  he  had  no  more  to  sell, 
however  many  he  had  made,  also  because  he  was  a  God- 
fearing man.  He  quietly  opened  another  shop  in  San 
Pietro  a  Maiella,  putting  in  one  of  his  sons ;  then,  later  on, 
another  shop  at  Costantinopoli  Street,  towards  the  Bourbon 
Museum,  with  another  son ;  and,  finally,  at  his  death,  his 
eldest  dared  to  aspire  to  Toledo  Street,  but  in  the  upper 
part,  opening  a  pastry-shop  with  three  doors — that  is  to  say, 
three  shops — at  the  corner  of  Spirito  Santo,  a  gorgeous 
place.  The  pastry -shops  of  Purgatoria  ad  Arco,  San 
Pietro  a  Maiella,  and  Costantinopoli  Streets  still  exist,  owned 
by  the  younger  brothers,  all  more  or  less  black  and  dirty, 
full  of  buzzing  flies,  but  giving  out  that  intoxicating  smell 
of  burnt  sugar,  apples,  fruit,  and  crumbling  pastry  that 
all  Naples  boys,  women,  and  old  men  long  for.  Even  at 
Purgatoria  ad  Arco  the  tarts  were  sold  at  a  penny,  halfway 
between  grandfather's  price  and  the  three-halfpence  of  the 
modern  shop.  But  the  three  shops  in  one  in  Toledo  Street 
rejoiced  in  the  inscription  '  Founded  in  1802,'  in  gold  letters 
on  black  marble — it  was  all  white  marble,  shining  plate- 
glass  windows  full  of  coloured  sweets,  bright  metal  boxes, 
and  clear  glasses  with  biscuits,  tall  round  vases  of  pastils, 
strong  and  sweet,  for  disordered  stomachs  or  for  coughs, 
and  glass  shelves  with  all  kinds  of  pastry  in  rows.  Via 
Toledo  confectionery  was  superb,  but  among  its  innovations 
it  had  not  neglected  the  safe  old  Neapolitan  speciality, 
sfogliatella,  always  popular  and  long-lived,  in  spite  of  innova- 
tions in  sweetmeats,  in  its  two  forms  of  riccia  and  frolla ;  on 
Sundays,  all  the  patriarchal  families  that  come  out  from 
Mass  from  so  many  churches  round — Spirito  Santo,  Pelle- 
grini, San  Michele,  San  Domenico  Soriano — bought  in  pass- 
ing some  six  or  eight  sfogliatella,  to  give  the  final  festive 
touch  to  the  Sunday  dinner.  Cesare  Fragala's  father  had 
added  to  the  sfogliatella  all  the  other  specialities  in  sweets 


AGNESINA  FRAGALA'S  CHRISTENING  27 

eaten  by  Naples  folk  at  all  the  feasts  in  the  year :  almond 
or  royal  paste  at  Christmas ;  sanguinaccio  at  Carnival ; 
Lenten  biscuits,  the  mastacciolo  and  pastiera,  at  Easter  ;  I'osso 
di  movto  (dead  men's  bones),  made  of  almonds  and  candied 
sugar,  for  All  Souls'  Day ;  the  torrone  for  St.  Martin's  ;  and 
others — croccante,  struffoli,  sosamiello — all  Parthenope's  sweets, 
made  of  almonds,  sugar,  and  chocolate,  delightful  to  the 
palate  and  heavy  to  digest ;  but  they  are  the  joy  of  Naples 
crowds — they  are  sent  into  the  provinces,  every  holiday, 
in  all  sizes  of  boxes  by  the  waggon-load.  Still  among 
the  Fragalas'  jealous  rivals  there  were  some  whispers  about 
the  mysterious  ingredients  in  these  sweets ;  but  it  was 
harmless  malignity,  to  which  customers  paid  no  heed ;  even 
if  they  believed  it,  they  cared  little  about  it.  The  Naples 
philosopher,  Peppino,  Fragala's  customer,  said  :  '  If  one 
knew  what  one  was  eating,  no  one  would  wish  to  eat  any- 
thing.' The  Fragala  house  was  solid :  Cesare  had  inherited 
a  good  fortune  and  unbroken  credit  from  his  father. 

It  is  true  he  had,  as  a  rich  citizen,  an  instinctive  contempt 
for  his  uncles'  and  cousins'  dark  shops,  where  the  flies 
buzzed  annoyingly,  as  if  cloyed  and  ill  with  indigestion  from 
the  bad  sugar  and  honey  ;  but  he  was  prudent  too — he  did 
not  scorn  his  origin,  he  willingly  received  his  relations  at 
family  dinners,  and  when  he  had  to  make  changes  in  his 
Toledo  shop,  he  thought  them  over,  and  took  advice — mostly 
from  his  wife.  Luisa  thought  of  all  this  as  she  put  on  her 
gloves  slowly,  whilst  her  husband  went  to  the  kitchen  to  see 
if  the  refreshments  were  ready,  and  that  the  extra  servants, 
hired  for  the  occasion,  were  properly  dressed.  She  rose, 
and,  picking  up  her  yellow  train,  went  to  lift  the  lace 
curtain  of  the  cradle,  and  passionately  gazed  on  her  daughter 
Agnesina.  Never,  never  would  her  husband  do  anything 
without  consulting  her  ;  he  had  married  her  for  love,  without 
a  halfpenny,  against  everyone's  wishes,  and  he  treated  her 
like  a  lady,  as  if  she  had  brought  twenty  thousand  ducats 
as  a  dowry.  Now  that  there  was  Agnesina  too,  father's 
lovely  daughter,  as  he  said  playfully,  it  was  impossible  he 
would  ever  hide  anything  from  her,  his  child's  mother. 
Who  knows  ?  Perhaps  it  had  to  do  with  the  pastry-shop  in 
San  Ferdinando  Piazza,  in  the  centre  of  the  richest  part  of 
Naples,  quite  a  modern  shop,  that  Cesare  had  been  dreaming 
about  opening  for  some  time  past  without  daring  to  risk  so 
much  capital.  Perhaps  it  was  that,  and  the  fresh,  pleasant- 


28  THE  LAND  OF  COCKA  YNE 

faced  mother  blessed  the  little  one,  and  prayed  God  would 
bless  her  father's  plans  and  her  mother's  hopes. 

On  leaving  the  room  she  met  her  husband. 

'  Where  is  nurse  ?'  she  asked. 

'  In  the  room  next  the  kitchen  with  Donna  Candida.' 

'  Let  us  go  and  see  them,'  she  said,  going  forward,  followed 
by  her  husband.  They  crossed  to  the  back  part  of  the  house, 
where  were  the  servants'  rooms,  and  came  to  the  pantry. 
The  wet-nurse  from  Fratta  Maggiore,  a  fine,  stout  woman, 
with  pink  cheeks,  great  prominent  eyes,  and  a  calm,  serene 
expression,  wore  her  pale  blue  damask  dress,  trimmed  with 
a  broad  yellow  silk  band,  which  went  in  such  deep  folds 
she  seemed  to  swim  at  every  step  she  took — it  was  stiff  like 
a  stuff  building.  She  wore  a  white  crape  handkerchief,  and 
a  gold  necklace  of  three  rows  of  big  hollow  beads  over  it ; 
the  front  of  her  dress  was  covered  by  a  batiste  apron,  over 
which  she  spread  her  well-ringed  hands.  Her  chestnut 
hair  was  tightly  held  back  by  a  silver  comb,  from  which 
fell  a  big  bow  of  blue  ribbon.  Donna  Candida,  the  midwife, 
was  beside  her,  a  guest  who  had  to  be  asked  ;  she  had  put 
on  her  red  silk  dress  for  big  christenings,  the  portrait  of  her 
late  husband,  Don  Nicodemo,  in  a  brooch,  and  a  red  cotton 
camellia  in  her  gray  hair.  Both  she  and  the  nurse,  most 
important  people,  were  waiting  patiently,  saying  a  few  words 
to  each  other. 

'  I  wish  you  all  happiness,'  called  out  the  old  nurse  on 
seeing  her  patient. 

'  Thank  you,  Donna  Candida.  You  have  come  early.  Does 
waiting  not  bore  you  ?  Will  you  take  something,  nurse  ?' 
Luisella's  voice  showed  tenderness  for  her  little  one's  nurse. 

'  As  your  excellency  pleases,'  said  the  nurse,  raising  her 
soft,  oil-coloured,  rather  stupid  eyes. 

Cesare  went  off,  and  brought  a  waiter  with  marsala  and 
cakes  for  the  women.  The  husband  and  wife  stood  looking 
at  them  quite  touched,  and  when  they  stopped  eating 
Luisella  pushed  the  tray  towards  them.  Donna  Candida, 
who  was  a  polite  woman,  held  up  her  first  glass  of  marsala, 
and  called  out : 

'  To  Donna  Agnesina's  health  !' 

'  To  my  little  one's  health  !'  said  the  other,  laughing. 

The  husband  and  wife  looked  at  each  other  with  happy 
tears  in  their  eyes,  nodding  their  thanks.  Suddenly  the 
mother  said : 


AGNESINA  FRAGAL&S  CHRISTENING  29 

'  Nurse,  the  baby  is  crying.' 

The  nurse  hurriedly  dried  her  lips,  put  down  the  candy  she 
was  eating,  and  rushed  off  with  a  great  rustle,  opening  her 
bodice  as  she  went  with  an  instinctive  maternal  movement. 

But  the  guests  were  already  coming  into  the  reception- 
room,  which  was  furnished  with  couches  and  easy-chairs  in 
pomegranate  brocade,  their  woodwork  gilded  ;  large  cartels, 
placed  on  gray  marble  and  gilt  brackets,  as  well  as  big  gilt- 
bronze  lamps  with  crystal  pendants  cut  in  facets,  lighted  it 
up.  Those  who  knew  each  other  had  joined  in  groups,  and 
spoke  to  each  other  in  a  lively  way  under  their  voice,  to 
look  like  people  of  spirit,  society  folk,  and  did  not  even  look 
at  the  unknown  guests ;  these  had  got  into  the  corners  by 
families,  and  brought  easy-chairs  and  seats  together  to 
make  a  fortress  for  themselves,  from  whence  they  cast  shy, 
inquisitive  glances  on  the  people  and  the  furniture,  suddenly 
dimmed  by  lowered  eyelids  if  they  felt  themselves  caught 
staring. 

The  family  of  Don  Domenico  Mayer  (a  clerk  in  the  Finance 
Department)  were  like  that.  They  lived  in  an  apartment  on 
the  fifth  floor  in  the  Rossi  Palace,  a  tall,  deep  building  at 
Mercatello  Square  that  looks  on  to  four  different  streets, 
where  the  neighbours  often  do  not  know  each  other 
even  by  name,  and  can  live  for  years  without  meeting, 
two  large  stairs  besides  two  smaller  ones  make  it  such  a 
puzzle.  Don  Domenico  Mayer,  with  a  misanthropic  look 
and  bureaucratic  overcoat,  led  in  a  misanthropic  family, 
composed  of  his  wife,  with  flabby,  colourless  cheeks,  always 
suffering  from  neuralgia  ;  his  daughter  Amalia,  a  tall,  stout 
girl,  with  prominent  eyes,  thick  nose  and  lips,  and  heavy 
black  tresses,  who  suffered  from  hysterical  convulsions  ;  and 
Alfonso,  the  son,  called  Fofo  by  everyone,  who  was  troubled 
by  a  growing  silliness  and  a  huge  appetite.  The  misan- 
thropic family  had  formed  into  a  square ;  the  women  pulled 
in  their  poor  though  tidy  gowns  round  their  chairs,  and  father 
and  son  sat  at  the  edge  of  theirs  stiff  and  silent.  Like  them, 
other  families  held  themselves  apart — clerks,  little  trades- 
men, managers — with  serious  looks,  keeping  their  elbows 
to  their  sides,  passing  their  hands  mechanically  over  their 
shiny,  not  to  say  glazed,  beavers  ;  whilst  on  the  other  side 
were  all  the  Fragalas,  and  with  them  the  Naddeos,  great 
ironware  dealers  at  Rua  Catalana  ;  the  Antonaccis,  pros- 
perous cloth  merchants  at  the  Mercanti ;  and  the  Durantes, 


30  THE  LAND  OF  COCKA  YNE 

great  dealers  in  dry  cod  at  Pietra  del  Pesce — the  men  in  broad- 
cloth, the  women  in  brocade  or  silk,  with  jewels,  especially 
bracelets,  like  Luisella  Fragala.  Her  charming  presence 
in  the  drawing-room  was  hailed  by  a  general  movement : 
all  rose ;  the  boldest  or  most  intimate  left  their  places  and 
surrounded  her,  while  the  shy  ones  kept  at  a  little  distance, 
waiting  composedly  till  they  were  seen  and  greeted. 

All  rejoiced  with  her  on  her  restored  health,  calling  her 
'  Mama,  Mama,'  wishing  her  in  the  Southern  style  this 
and  a  hundred  others,  all  in  good  health — that  is  to  say,  a 
hundred  more  children,  no  less.  She  got  pink  with  pleasure, 
bent  her  head  in  giving  thanks,  which  made  the  diamond 
star  in  her  hair  sparkle  :  it  was  a  subject  for  comment 
to  the  other  Fragalas,  the  Naddeos,  the  Antonaccis,  and 
Durantes  ;  it  was  the  secret-sighing  admiration  of  all  the 
other  humble  guests,  the  so-called  mezze  signore.  Then, 
while  Cesare  Fragala  chattered  with  the  men,  laughing, 
passing  his  gloved  hand  through  his  curly  hair,  there  was  a 
general  return  to  the  couches  and  easy-chairs :  all  sat  down. 

Luisella  Fragala,  standing  in  the  middle  of  the  room, 
went  to  meet  each  lady  that  she  saw  coming  in  at  the  door, 
greeted  her  smilingly,  and  led  her  to  an  easy-chair,  making 
a  large  feminine  circle,  where  fans  waved  slowly  over 
opulent  bosoms  encased  in  brocade.  Only  the  middle 
couch  remained  empty — it  was  the  post  of  honour ;  all  were 
looking  at  it  and  towards  the  door,  waiting  the  unknown 
guests  who  were  to  sit  there  :  for  they  knew  the  party 
would  not  really  begin  without  them,  and  no  refreshments 
would  be  offered  till  the  guests  of  high  rank  appeared  ;  in 
fact,  Luisella  and  Cesare  as  the  time  passed  gave  each  other 
inquiring  glances.  Suddenly,  as  a  couple  came  into  the 
room,  Luisella  made  a  quick,  joyful  gesture,  effusively 
embraced  the  lady,  and  pressed  the  gentleman's  hand 
smilingly  ;  a  whisper  went  through  the  room,  someone  got 
up,  a  name  was  breathed.  It  was  really  him,  Don  Gennaro 
Parascandolo,  the  famous  Don  Gennaro,  a  tall,  strong, 
agreeable  man,  with  a  countenance  breathing  honesty,  good 
faith,  good  temper  ;  his  hand-shake  was  hearty,  his  smile 
cheered  the  most  low-spirited  people,  his  glance  put  life  into 
one ;  a  very  rich  man — in  short,  little  Agnesina's  godfather, 
a  rich  man  with  no  children. 

He  had  had  children — he  and  his  sickly  wife  with  the 
grayish  hair  and  sad  eyes.  She  liked  to  stay  shut  up  in  her 


AGNESINA  FRAG  ALA1  S  CHRISTENING  31 

sumptuous  silent  house,  and  when  she  went  about  with  him 
looked  like  a  woman's  shadow,  a  living  image  of  grief. 
They  had  had  three  lovely  children,  two  boys  and  a  girl, 
healthy  and  strong,  for  whom  Don  Gennaro  Parascandolo 
had  worked  at  his  cold  terrible  trade  of  aristocratic  usurer 
to  make  them  rich.  He  never  lent  less  than  five  thousand 
francs  or  more  than  two  hundred  thousand  at  one  time, 
always  at  10  per  cent,  a  month — cruel  for  his  children's 
sake.  But  diphtheria  had  come  into  his  house,  furtively, 
irremediably;  in  twenty-five  days  the  most  distinguished 
doctors'  science,  father  and  mother's  despair,  money  poured 
out,  were  found  useless :  nothing  could  save  the  three  children. 
All  died  choking  in  such  a  painful  way  that  Signora  Para- 
scandolo's  reason  seemed  to  give  way  for  a  time.  Even  the 
strong  man  seemed  to  reel  for  a  moment ;  he  only  recovered 
very  slowly.  He  travelled  a  great  deal,  he  showed  at  all  first 
nights,  gave  flowers  and  jewels  to  famous  dancers — all  with 
the  greatest  indifference,  not  as  if  he  was  bored,  but  with 
no  brightness  nor  gaiety.  Now  and  then,  very  seldom,  his 
wife  went  out  with  him,  a  colourless  taciturn  creature,  in- 
capable of  distracting  her  thoughts  even  for  a  moment  from 
her  three  dead  children ;  but  at  these  times  Don  Gennaro 
got  gay  :  he  came  out  with  a  heavy  commercial  wit  to  which 
his  wife  responded  with  a  slight  distracted  smile. 

As  Don  Gennaro  Parascandolo  had  persuaded  his  poor 
shadow  to  leave  the  shade  that  evening,  he  was  quite  lively  ; 
whilst  Luisella  led  the  signora  to  the  divan  of  honour,  he 
went  about,  followed  by  Cesare,  joking  and  laughing;  all 
made  a  chorus  to  him  wherever  he  passed,  with  that 
tendency  to  worship  riches  that  all,  and  Southerners  in 
particular,  are  apt  to  have.  The  Naddeos,  Antonaccis, 
Durantes,  and  Fragalas  were  rich  people  ;  but  things  may 
change  in  this  world  from  one  day  to  another.  And  Don 
Gennaro  was  so  rich  he  really  did  not  know  what  to  do 
with  his  money !  As  to  the  little  people  in  the  room — 
clerks,  tradesmen,  managers — they  looked  respectfully  at 
him  from  afar,  impressed  by  his  broad  shoulders,  deep 
chest,  and  leonine  head.  His  name  was  whispered  here 
and  there,  with  comments  in  a  lower  voice :  '  Don  Gennaro 
Parascandolo.' 

But  Cesare  and  Luisella  seemed  to  get  an  electric  shock 
when  the  third  person  they  were  waiting  for  arrived.  She 
was  an  old  lady,  who  came  forward  solemnly,  in  a  very  old 


32  THE  LAND  OF  COCKA  YNE 

maroon  silk,  stiff  as  a  board,  made  in  the  fashion  of  thirty 
years  before,  with  organ-pipe  pleats  and  very  wide  sleeves. 
She  wore  a  black  lace  shawl  that  was  very  old,  too,  fastened 
with  a  turquoise  and  ruby  brooch,  black  lace  mittens  on  her 
old,  withered  hands,  that  clutched  a  black  velvet  bag  worked 
in  point  stitch — on  one  side  a  little  dog  on  a  cushion,  a 
peasant  woman  with  a  broad  straw  hat  on  the  other. 
Luisella,  pulling  up  her  train,  ran  to  meet  her,  made  a 
deep  curtsy,  and  stooped  to  kiss  the  hand  that  the  old 
woman  held  out ;  she  had  an  old  coquette's  peevish  ex- 
pression, with  round  gray  eyes  and  a  drooping  nose.  An- 
other whisper  went  through  the  room :  '  The  godmother, 
the  Marchioness.'  No  one  said  she  was  the  Marchioness 
of  Castelforte  ;  she  was  the  godmother — that  was  all.  There 
was  only  one  Marchioness  godmother  in  the  Fragala  family  ; 
she  was  Luisella's  godmother  and  patron,  a  lady  respected 
and  feared  by  the  whole  connection — in  short,  a  Marchioness, 
a  titled  person,  of  superior  race.  Even  Don  Parascandolo, 
who  had  no  need  of  anyone,  as  all  knew,  went  to  bow  before 
her,  while  the  old  woman  closely  examined  him. 

Now  there  was  no  more  room  on  the  seat  of  honour. 
Luisella  sat  in  the  middle,  the  Marchioness  on  her  right, 
and  Signora  Parascandolo  on  her  left,  in  Parisian  costume, 
covered  with  magnificent  jewels,  but  bowing  her  head  under 
the  weight  of  remembrances,  always  and  unfailingly.  As  all 
got  seated,  there  was  perfect  silence  for  two  minutes.  All 
were  waiting,  still  looking  at  the  door  furtively,  pretending 
to  think  about  something  else.  Ladies  hid  a  little  yawn 
behind  their  fans ;  girls  had  that  sleep-walking  look  that 
makes  them  seem  detached  from  all  human  interests ;  men 
twirled  their  moustaches  ;  and  the  boys  had  that  absolutely 
idiotic  look  of  which  Fofo  Mayer  was  the  highest  exponent. 

But  Cesare  Fragala  disappeared.  Refreshments  came  in 
two  minutes  after  that  silence.  Then  all  set  to  talking, 
loudly,  noisily,  to  have  an  easy  bearing,  pretending  not 
to  care  for  refreshments.  But  they  came  in  from  all  sides 
continuously,  spreading  through  the  room,  to  the  delight  of 
all  who  longed  for  sweets — men  and  women,  boys  and  girls. 
To  ices  thick  and  round  as  a  full  moon,  so  hard  the  teaspoon 
had  to  be  pressed  down,  followed  Portuguese  cream,  fruit, 
strawberries,  white  and  Levant  coffee,  chocolate ;  smaller  ices 
of  all  shapes,  prettily  arranged  in  pink  or  blue  glass  shells 
with  gold  rims ;  sponges — half  cream  and  half  ice,  of  different 


AGNESINA  FRAGALA'S  CHRISTENING  33 

flavours  :  chocolate,  mandarin  punch,  pistachio,  straw- 
berries and  cream,  honey  and  milk.  After  sponge-cakes,  the 
delight  of  women  and  boys,  followed  peach  and  almond  tarts, 
and  coffee  and  lemon  ices,  served  in  milky  white  porcelain 
glasses.  For  ten  minutes  nothing  was  heard  but  the  rattling 
of  plates,  spoons,  and  glasses ;  but  when  the  ladies  saw  the 
trifles  coming,  they  cried  out  enthusiastically  about  their 
lovely  colours,  with  the  white  foam  in  the  middle,  and  held 
out  their  hands  involuntarily,  whilst  others,  quieter  and  more 
active,  ate  up  one  thing  after  the  other  to  compare  them. 

Conversation  got  animated  with  such  joy.  Gentlemen 
ran  here  and  there,  fetching  a  plate  or  glass,  serving  the 
ladies  and  themselves  too,  speaking  from  a  distance,  asking 
questions,  calling  up  the  waiters  with  the  trays,  making 
them  lose  their  heads  in  the  confusion. 

'  A  sponge-cake  for  Signora  Naddeo.' 

'  Would  you  like  an  almond  tart  ?' 

'Take  a  glass  of  champagne  punch.  There  is  nothing 
better  for  digesting  the  rest.' 

'  Who  will  change  a  strawberry  ice  for  a  coffee  ice  ?' 

'  I  assure  you  it  comes  to  nothing,  after  all ;  the  ices  are 
water  really.  What  shall  it  be — strawberries  ?' 

'  I  have  one.' 

'  Mama,  give  me  the  cream.' 

Quite  pleased,  Cesare  ran  from  one  side  to  the  other, 
leading  the  waiters,  as  every  tray  came  up,  towards  the 
Marchioness,  who  was  always  the  first  to  take  some.  Signora 
Parascandolo  was  the  next ;  but  she  hardly  took  a  spoonful, 
when  she  put  down  her  plate  and  cast  down  her  eyes  again 
distractedly,  as  if  she  neither  saw  nor  heard  what  was  going 
on  around  her.  The  Marchioness,  on  the  other  hand,  with- 
out hurrying,  ate  slowly  of  everything  with  her  fallen-in 
mouth  and  toothless  gums,  her  jaw  going  continually  and 
her  hooked  nose  trembling  over  her  upper  lip. 

'  My  lady,  try  this  pistachio.  Would  you  like  mandarin 
better,  my  lady?' 

She  nodded  '  Yes,'  like  an  old  Chinese  idol.  Her  withered 
hands  had  let  go  the  bag,  after  taking  a  big  white  handker- 
chief out  of  it  to  put  under  her  plate. 

Very  happy,  Luisella  tossed  her  head,  laughing  at  all 
that  cheerful  noise.  Every  now  and  then  her  husband 
stopped  before  her. 

'  Won't  you  take  something  ?' 

3 


34  THE  LAND  OF  COCKA  YNE 

'  No,  no  !     Help  the  other  ladies.' 

'  Take  something,  Luisella.' 

'  No ;  I  like  looking  on  better.' 

The  view  all  around  was  so  interesting !  The  ladies,  who 
were  more  affected  in  their  greed,  sipped  the  sherbet  deli- 
cately, keeping  the  plate  on  the  point  of  their  gloved  fingers, 
raising  the  little  finger  every  time  they  put  in  the  spoon, 
keeping  a  lace  handkerchief  on  their  knees,  and  biting  their 
lips  after  each  spoonful.  Some  men  quietly  followed  the 
waiter's  tray  step  by  step,  so  as  to  make  a  good  choice,  after 
which  they  went  into  a  corner  to  eat  comfortably.  Little 
children  put  their  ices  on  a  chair,  covering  themselves  with 
cream  up  to  their  eyes,  and  stuck  out  their  pink  lips,  their 
innocent  eyes  showing  their  delight  as  they  slowly  licked 
the  spoon ;  whilst  the  sleepy-headed-looking  girls  refused 
this  and  that,  and  ended  by  taking  a  little  of  everything, 
leaving  the  half  of  it,  not  really  fond  of  eating  yet.  Even 
the  Mayer  family  had  got  over  their  misanthropy  ;  the  lady 
thought  no  more  of  her  neuralgia,  and  Don  Domenico  hesi- 
tated between  a  sponge  and  an  ice,  whilst  Amalia  and  Fofo 
exchanged  ices,  to  get  the  taste  of  each. 

In  the  other  rooms,  everywhere,  in  the  passages,  even  in 
the  cook's  bedroom  and  the  kitchen,  the  same  jingling  of 
glasses  and  spoons  went  on,  and  the  joy  was  even  greater. 
The  servants  from  every  floor  in  the  Rossi  Palace  had  run 
in.  The  porter  came  up ;  the  hairdresser  returned ;  the 
nurse's  husband,  the  Naddeos'  and  the  Antonaccis'  coachmen 
— for  they  kept  carriages — came  in ;  even  the  newspaper 
boy  of  the  Tarsia  corner  and  the  postman,  still  in  uniform 
from  his  last  round,  with  letter-bag  round  his  neck,  stood 
beside  Gelsomina  and  Donna  Candida.  All  these  humble 
common  folk  that  love  sweets  and  sherbet  had  a  feast,  by 
the  master's  orders,  and  he  came  out  every  now  and  then  to 
the  kitchen,  delighted  to  see  them  enjoy  themselves.  He 
replied  to  the  servants'  congratulations,  speaking  to  them 
familiarly  in  dialect. 

Now  there  spread  a  feeling  of  gastronomic  repose ;  people 
quieted  down,  got  a  composed  look,  and  smiled  happily  after 
the  first  burst  of  gourmandizing.  Conversation,  languid  at 
first,  had  taken  the  mild  tone  of  quiet,  easy  people,  full  of 
good  breeding.  The  ladies  smiled  slightly ;  the  girls  waved 
their  fans ;  men  set  mild  discussions  agoing  solemnly — about 
their  affairs,  about  the  small  politics  of  the  day,  the  stagnant 


AGNESINA  FRAGALA'S  CHRISTENING  35 

state  of  trade,  from  which  all  suffered.    They  stood  in  groups, 
gesticulating  and  solemnly  nodding. 

The  Marchioness  had  picked  up  her  velvet  bag  and 
crossed  her  hands  over  it — a  torpor  came  over  her,  and  she 
looked  like  an  old  sleeping  mummy ;  whilst  Signora  Para- 
scandolo,  with  her  head  down,  gazed  abstractedly  at  her 
fan,  a  precious  antique  her  husband  must  have  got  from 
some  desperate  debtor  by  forced  sale.  Luisella  began  to 
feel  very  much  bored  between  these  two  silent  women ;  her 
lively  temperament  made  her  feel  inclined  to  get  up  and 
speak  to  her  friends  and  relations,  still  more  to  go  and  see 
what  Agnesina  was  doing,  and  what  was  going  on  in  the 
kitchen  and  the  dining-room  to  cause  such  a  noise ;  but  her 
post  of  honour  was  on  the  divan — it  would  have  been  a 
breach  of  etiquette  to  leave  it ;  so  she  went  on  being  bored, 
smiling  to  her  friends  at  a  distance,  and  waving  her  gold- 
spangled  fan.  All  at  once,  she  called  her  husband — she  could 
stand  it  no  longer — and  whispered  to  him  ;  he  nodded  assent 
and  went  off  to  arrange  the  procession.  The  guests,  know- 
ing the  usual  programme,  understood,  and  began  looking 
towards  the  door,  occasionally,  for  another  part  of  the  show 
to  begin.  Some  affectionate  smiles  began  already ;  a  slight 
whisper  ran  along.  The  procession  appeared  at  the  chief 
door.  Little  Agnesina,  in  a  white  cap  with  pale  blue  ribbons 
that  made  her  face  quite  red,  wore  an  embroidered  batiste 
robe  that  covered  the  pink  little  hands.  She  was  laid  out 
on  a  portabimbi  of  pale  blue  silk  and  lace,  her  head  raised  on 
a  cushion ;  this  forms  a  bed,  a  cradle,  a  bag,  and  a  garment, 
all  in  one ;  it  lay  on  the  strong  arm  of  the  Fratta  Maggiore 
nurse,  Gelsomina,  who  carried  it  with  the  deepest  devotion,  as 
a  cleric  carries  the  missal  from  one  end  of  the  altar  to  the 
other,  not  taking  her  eyes  off  Agnesina,  who  stared  placidly 
at  her  with  the  clear  crystal  eyes  of  a  new-born  infant. 
Beside  her  was  Donna  Candida,  all  in  the  gravity  of  her 
office;  to  mark  its  continuity  she  laid  her  hand  on  the 
baby's  pillow;  then  followed  the  father,  Cesare  Fragala, 
and  a  little  further  back  the  waiters  with  trays  of  candy, 
sweets,  and  dried  fruits,  caramels,  jujubes,  then  other  trays 
with  marsala,  malaga,  Lunel ;  and  farther  back  still, 
venturing  to  peep  in,  some  inquisitive  servant  gazing  with 
open  eyes. 

The  christening-party  was  not  unexpected ;  the  guests  all 
knew  the  baby  would  be  shown,  so  long,  noisy  applause 

3-2 


36  THE  LAND  OF  COCKAYNE 

greeted  it,  with  a  clapping  of  gloved  hands,  and  a  chorus 
burst  out : 

'  Long  live  Agnesina  !' 

'  May  you  grow  up  holy  !' 

'  How  lovely,  how  sweet  she  is !' 

'Agnesina!  Agnesina!' 

'  Cheers  for  Agnesina' s  papa  and  mamma  !' 

In  the  meanwhile  the  baby  was  carried  straight  to  her 
godmother,  the  Marchioness,  to  be  kissed ;  she  had  held 
her  at  the  font  that  morning,  and  now  kissed  her  lightly  on 
the  forehead,  while  she  put  a  white  paper  into  the  nurse's 
hand,  with  a  discontented  movement  of  her  long  nose  over 
her  fallen-in  mouth. 

Applause  followed  the  Marchioness's  kiss.  Then,  bending 
down,  Don  Gennaro,  the  godfather,  kissed  her ;  his  broad 
face  was  rather  pale  and  contracted  as  by  some  evil  thought : 
perhaps  other  christenings,  his  sons',  passed  through  his 
mind.  But  he  recovered  quickly,  and  received  the  com- 
pany's still  noisier  applause  with  a  smile.  After  the  mother 
had  kissed  the  baby  there  was  a  long  minute's  silence  among 
the  joyous  party ;  she  kept  her  head  down  over  the  baby's 
face,  as  if  inhaling  its  breath,  blessing  it,  calling  down  on 
it  blessings  from  heaven.  A  great  noise  followed ;  as  baby 
was  carried  triumphantly  round  the  room,  the  women  gave 
little  screams  of  motherly  emotion,  and  kissed  her  enthusi- 
astically, which  made  her  whimper.  Raising  her  head, 
Luisella  suddenly  noticed  a  queer  figure  leaning  against  a 
door-post ;  she  did  not  know  who  he  was  ;  her  curiosity  was 
aroused.  She  tried  to  remember  ever  having  seen  him 
before,  but  vainly :  it  was  someone  new.  Who  could  he 
be  ?  Perhaps  he  had  been  brought  by  a  friend  or  relation, 
without  asking  leave,  with  that  calm  familiarity  that  from 
the  Naples  populace  rises  to  the  highest  classes.  It  was 
certainly  someone  unknown. 

Whilst  the  overkissed  baby  went  on  whimpering,  the 
nurse  and  the  ladies  trying  to  console  it  by  loving  little 
words  in  a  singing  tone,  and  the  room  was  again  filled  with 
the  joy  of  eating,  Luisella,  curiously  interested,  possessed 
by  an  inward  feeling,  could  not  keep  her  eyes  off  that  queer, 
motionless  figure.  He  was  a  man  of  between  thirty-five 
and  forty,  with  the  pallid,  cadaverous  face  of  one  who  has 
made  a  long,  disastrous  voyage ;  a  rather  curly,  ill-kept 
black  beard  on  his  sickly  red-streaked  cheeks  hid  all  traces 


AGNESINA  FX A  GALA'S  CHRISTENING  37 

of  linen  or  necktie ;  the  forehead  showed  the  same  bloodless 
pallor,  and  two  deep  lines  formed  at  every  movement  of  the 
eyebrows ;  his  chestnut  hair  was  thrown  back  untidily, 
leaving  the  temples  bare,  it  being  rather  sparse  there,  and  a 
network  of  rather  swollen  blue  veins  showed  to  an  observing 
eye.  When  he  moved  his  head,  the  muscles  of  his  lean 
neck  stood  out  like  a  dead  fowl's  sinews ;  his  loose-hanging 
hands  were  fleshless,  too.  The  man  was  very  poorly  dressed  : 
his  pepper-and-salt  trousers  were  too  short,  showing  the 
ill-brushed  shoes  tied  by  a  rusty  ribbon  ;  his  waistcoat  and 
jacket — yes,  really  a  jacket — were  of  dark  maroon.  The 
man's  whole  appearance  was  sickly,  mysterious,  wretched, 
and  mean  ;  his  dull  eyes  wandered  here  and  there  without 
settling  a  minute  on  the  same  spot ;  even  his  expression 
was  mysterious  and  ignoble. 

'  Who  can  the  ragged  fellow  be  ?'  Luisella  said  to 
herself  with  an  angry,  frightened  feeling. 

All  were  rejoicing  again  round  the  sweet-trays,  the  choicest 
sweets  in  the  Toledo  Street  shop.  To  a  natural  love  of 
sweets  was  added  curiosity  to  taste  new  kinds  they  had  often 
admired  in  pretty  boxes.  Dates  and  pistachio  cream,  to 
which  a  glass  of  malaga  gives  such  a  good  flavour  ;  while 
comfits  of  roses,  with  a  dash  of  lemon-peel  to  excite  the 
palate,  suits  marsala  best,  they  found ;  all  that  soft,  attrac- 
tive, enchanting  odour  of  vanilla  from  the  chocolates  and 
creams,  the  sharp  flavour  of  mint,  cooling  and  exciting,  for 
it  burns  the  mouth  and  causes  thirst — all  these  things, 
pleasant  to  the  eye  and  palate,  delicious  in  odour,  gave  a 
new  excitement  to  the  party,  to  which  freely-poured-out 
wine  added  a  slight  intoxication. 

'  Who  can  that  dirty  fellow  be  ?'  Luisella  was  still  saying 
to  herself,  feeling  hurt  in  her  pride  as  mistress  of  the  house, 
in  her  love  of  tidiness,  by  that  sickly,  wretched,  dirty  man. 
She  got  up  mechanically  to  find  out  from  someone  about 
that  queer,  ragged  fellow  who  had  got  into  her  house, 
leaving  the  Marchioness,  who  again  spread  out  her  hand- 
kerchief and  heaped  all  kinds  of  sweets  on  it,  munching  at 
them  slowly  ;  leaving  the  rich,  unhappy  Signora  Parascan- 
dolo,  who  was  following  little  Agnesina  about  with  her  eyes 
full  of  tears.  Just  then  Luisella  Fragala  overtook  the  little 
retinue  where  her  baby  was  now  shrilly  crying,  having 
nearly  made  the  round  of  the  room.  Gelsomina  was  going 
to  stop  before  the  queer  individual  as  if  she  wanted  to  make 


38  THE  LAND  OF  COCKA  YNE 

him  kiss  the  baby,  but  as  he  came  forward  to  do  so  Luisella 
broke  in  instinctively  and  sharply,  and  scornfully  eyeing 
the  unknown,  she  said  to  the  nurse,  putting  her  hands  on 
Agnesina's  pillow  to  protect  her  : 

'  Go  away,  nurse  ;  baby  is  crying  too  much.' 

The  nurse  went  out  at  once,  followed  by  Donna  Candida, 
whilst  the  mother  looked  at  them  through  the  door  as  they 
went  off  through  the  other  rooms,  as  if  still  to  protect  her 
from  some  unknown  evil.  As  she  went  back  into  the  room 
the  sight  of  the  carpet  amused  her  ;  paper  cases  of  candied 
fruit,  gold  and  silver  paper,  were  scattered  over  it ;  the 
seats,  tables,  and  brackets  had  little  heaps  of  sweets  from 
the  pillaged  trays  ;  ladies  had  taken  off  their  gloves  to  hold 
the  bit  of  candy  or  caramel  they  were  eating  ;  men  were 
leading  from  one  tray  to  another  children  who  whimpered, 
all  covered  with  sugar  and  chocolate  ;  others,  having  asked 
leave  of  Cesare  Fragala,  who  granted  it  laughingly,  gathered 
up  the  sweets  in  a  handkerchief,  taking  care  not  to  crush 
them  ;  whilst  others,  including  Cesare  himself,  sent  for  paper 
to  make  into  bags  to  hold  what  was  left  in  the  trays.  All 
hands  were  sticky  and  mouths  shiny.  On  the  tables  were 
red  or  yellow  rings  from  glasses  of  wine  put  down,  and  a 
loud  continuous  clatter  went  on  through  the  devastation. 

'  Cesare  !'  called  out  Luisella  to  her  husband. 

'  What  do  you  want,  darling  ?'  he  answered,  while  tying  a 
three-coloured  string  with  the  knack  of  a  professional. 

'  Tell  me  one  thing.' 

'  Two  if  you  like.' 

'  Who  is  that  man  there,  near  the  door  ?' 

'  That  one  ?'  he  said,  peering  as  if  he  did  not  see  well ; 
'  it  is  Giovanni  Astuti,  the  money-changer.' 

'  No,  no  !  I  know  him — that  other  one.' 

'  Oh,  it  is  somebody  or  other,'  he  said,  rather  embarrassed. 

'  Who  is  it  ?'  said  she  severely. 

'  A  friend  of  mine.' 

'  A  friend — that  ragged  fellow  a  friend  ?' 

'  One  can't  always  have  rich  friends,'  was  the  answer, 
with  rather  a  forced  laugh. 

'  I  know ;  but  that  is  no  reason  for  bringing  a  dirty  fellow 
among  decent  people,  even  if  he  is  your  friend.' 

'  How  excitable  you  are,  dear  !     Be  charitable.' 

'  Charity  is  one  thing,  decency  is  another,'  she  replied 
obstinately.  '  Don't  you  see  how  untidy  he  is  ?' 


AGNESINA  FRAGALA'S  CHRISTENING  39 

'  Untidy  !'  he  muttered,  with  his  usual  good-nature  ;  '  he 
is  a  philosopher — he  does  not  care  about  clothes.' 

'  Well,  I  want  him  to  go  away.' 

'  How  can  it  be  done  ?'  he  asked,  confused  and  mortified 
by  his  wife's  persistence. 

'Tell  him  so!' 

'  I'll  first  give  him  a  glass  of  wine;  be  patient,  then  I  will 
make  him  go  away.' 

In  fact,  Cesare  went  up  to  the  unknown  to  offer  him 
sweets  and  wine,  speaking  in  a  whisper,  and  looking  him  in 
the  eyes.  He  agreed,  with  a  smile  on  his  discoloured  lips. 
He  began  to  eat  slowly,  with  a  little  grimace,  as  if  he  could 
not  swallow  well.  The  mysterious  person  looked  at  the 
sweets  Cesare  offered  him  with  an  undecided  air,  before 
putting  them  into  his  mouth  ;  but  he  made  up  his  mind  to  eat 
them  at  last,  still  with  that  nervous,  pained  look  of  having  a 
narrow  swallow.  He  was  standing  with  that  embarrassed 
shame  of  his  own  person  that  is  some  people's  constant  un- 
happiness  ;  and  he  broke  an  almond  noisily,  gulped  over 
big  mouthfuls  of  Margherita  paste,  gazing  vaguely  around, 
as  if  he  dared  not  lower  his  eyes  on  his  legs  and  shoes. 
Then  he  slowly  went  on  eating  ;  for  Cesare  had  had  a  tray 
put  on  a  table  beside  him,  and  went  on  handing  him  choco- 
lates, vanilla  almonds,  mandarins  in  syrup.  A  tray  of  wine- 
glasses was  set  down  also ;  the  queer  fellow  took  three 
glasses,  one  after  the  other,  without  taking  breath  between, 
lifting  his  pale,  streaked  face  and  hospital  convalescent's 
sickly  beard.  Cesare  Fragala,  with  a  set,  preoccupied  smile, 
looked  in  the  man's  eyes,  as  if  he  wanted  to  read  his  soul, 
all  the  time  this  feeding  went  on. 

In  the  meanwhile  Luisella,  to  amuse  herself,  to  calm  the 
impatience  that  had  burst  out  so  suddenly,  wandered  about, 
chattering  and  laughing  with  her  relations  and  friends.  Now 
came  a  rumour  that  the  diamond  star  in  her  hair  was  a  gift 
from  the  baby's  godfather,  one  worthy  of  so  rich  a  man. 
In  their  hearts  all  the  merchants'  wives  thought  Luisella  had 
been  very  sly,  under  cover  of  politeness,  to  choose  so  rich  a 
godfather ;  they  made  up  their  minds,  with  their  next  babies, 
to  do  the  same,  to  choose  a  godfather  who  knew  his  duty 
and  would  do  it  like  that  dear  Don  Gennaro.  Malicious  little 
aphorisms  ran  around  :  '  Those  who  think  out  a  thing  well  are 
not  sorry  afterwards.'  '  A  gentleman  is  always  a  gentleman.' 
'  Live  with  someone  richer  than  you,  and  get  him  to  pay.' 


40  THE  LAND  OF  COCKA  YNE 

As  Luisella  Fragala.  got  near,  this  was  all  changed  into  a 
chorus  of  admiration  of  the  magnificent  jewel.  She  acknow- 
ledged it,  and  bent  her  head,  blushing  proudly,  as  the  star 
sparkled  in  her  black  hair.  The  women  gave  that  long,  ad- 
miring murmur  that  flutters  the  giver  and  receiver — full  of 
gratified  pleasure,  self-satisfied  affection,  whilst  their  eyes 
languished  or  flashed.  Some,  to  be  still  more  amiable,  even  if 
it  was  humbug,  asked  :  '  Is  it  from  the  godfather  ?'  '  Yes,' 
said  Luisella,  with  a  slight  sigh.  '  It  could  not  be  otherwise,' 
the  other  whispered,  as  if  she  had  guessed  well.  Elsewhere 
Luisella  had  twice  been  obliged  to  take  the  pin  out  of  her  hair, 
because  ladies  wished  to  hold  the  precious  star  in  their  hands. 
A  group  formed,  women's  faces  bent  over,  full  of  curiosity  and 
that  love  of  jewellery  that  is  at  the  bottom  of  every  woman's 
heart,  however  modest  and  obscure  she  is.  There  were 
shrieks  of  admiration  ;  questions  and  interjections  arose  at 
the  flash  of  the  brilliants.  Someone  got  to  asking  the  price, 
even  ;  but  Luisella  gave  a  shrug  to  show  her  ignorance, 
which  increased  the  stone's  value ;  this  mystery,  this  un- 
known cipher,  acquired  a  breadth  in  the  feminine  mind  that 
imposed  respect.  So  that  at  a  certain  point  eight  or  ten 
ladies  surrounding  Luisella,  with  a  growing  burst  of  enthu- 
siasm, called  out,  '  Hurrah  for  the  godfather  !' 

Don  Gennaro  Parascandolo,  pretending  to  hear  nothing, 
ran  up  eagerly,  with  the  easy  good-nature  of  a  travelled 
Neapolitan.  He  modestly  disclaimed  compliments  :  it  was 
a  nothing  at  all — two  insignificant  stones,  bits  of  glass ;  the 
ladies,  in  lively  contradiction,  praised  him,  and  overwhelmed 
him  with  civilities,  from  a  deep  womanly  instinct  that  makes 
them  profuse  in  words  and  smiles,  knowing  something  may 
come  of  it.  When  he  said  Donna  Luisa  Fragala  was  worthy 
of  a  starry  crown,  applause  drowned  his  voice.  In  the  mean- 
while the  mistress  of  the  house  had  given  side-glances  now 
and  then  towards  the  shabby  fellow  who  was  so  much  on  her 
nerves ;  but  he  went  on  evenly  eating  and  drinking,  with 
that  slow  movement  of  the  muscles  of  his  neck  that  was  like 
a  hen's  claw.  However,  something  more  extraordinary  was 
going  on  around,  which  Luisella  had  to  give  heed  to,  at  the 
time  the  phenomenon  burst  out  in  the  room.  Whilst  the 
horrid  fellow  pillaged  the  sweets,  making  a  circle  of  cut-out 
paper  round  his  feet,  and  prune-stones  as  well,  he  had  drawn 
the  attention  of  those  who  had  finished  eating  ices.  In  these 
gourmands'  vague  hour  of  digestion,  quite  satisfied  with  a 


AGNES 'IN A  FRAGALA'S  CHRISTENING  41 

packet  of  sweets  to  carry  home,  having  nothing  to  do,  their 
eyes  wandered  round,  and  they  noticed  that  queer  beggar 
Cesare  Fragala  was  feeding  so  attentively ;  gradually  one 
pointed  him  out  to  the  other  :  by  that  glance,  a  poke  with  the 
elbow,  raised  eyebrows,  or  a  smile,  that  makes  the  most  ex- 
pressive of  languages,  they  showed  each  other  that  silent 
devourer,  who  began  when  they  were  finished,  but  looked 
as  if  he  would  never  finish  until  he  had  demolished  the  last 
sweet  and  drunk  the  last  glass  of  wine.  Some  looked  at  him 
rather  admiringly,  sorry  they  could  not  imitate  that  con- 
tinual guzzling ;  some  smiled  indulgently ;  others  had  a 
compassionate  look  in  their  eyes  for  an  unlucky  fellow  that 
seemed  never  to  have  eaten  or  drunken  enough.  Some 
phrases,  here  and  there,  jocular  and  good-natured,  were 
repeated  from  one  to  another :  '  What  a  digestion  !'  '  It  is 
St.  Peter's  Church  !'  '  Health  and  protection  to  him !'  'I 
would  make  him  a  coat  rather  than  feed  him !'  '  Santa 
Lucia  keep  him  his  sight,  because  he  has  no  need  of  an 
appetite  !' 

But  they  were  the  usual  rather  coarse  remarks  about  a 
great  eater.  Some  man  in  search  of  amusement  had  come 
close  to  Cesare  and  the  silent  gobbler  to  watch  them.  Little 
by  little,  all  now  in  the  drawing-room  had  their  eyes  on 
the  great  eater.  Luisella  blushed  with  shame  to  think 
that  everyone  had  now  noticed  the  wretched  ragged  fellow 
her  husband  had  brought  into  the  house,  that  she  had  to 
submit  to  having  in  her  room.  Vainly  she  tried,  by  going 
about  talking  and  laughing,  joking  and  waving  her  fan,  to 
distract  attention  :  it  was  useless. 

The  people  brought  together  in  the  drawing-room  had 
eaten  and  drunken,  praised  the  baby,  the  diamond  star, 
and  the  giver  of  it ;  now,  not  knowing  what  else  to  do,  they 
had  fixed  their  attention  on  that  queer  ragged  fellow,  who 
was  certainly  out  of  place  in  Luisella  Fragala's  drawing- 
room.  She  was  a  good  woman,  but  very  proud  ;  though 
charitable,  she  would  never  have  brought  a  pauper  into  her 
room.  It  was  useless  for  her  to  fly  in  a  passion,  feeling 
tears  come  to  her  eyes.  Now  all  had  noticed  the  beggarly 
gobbler,  all  were  looking  at  him,  even  the  women  and  the 
sleepy-headed  girls  who  looked  as  if  they  never  saw  any- 
thing. The  same  compassionate,  laughing,  tolerating  smiles 
were  on  the  women's  faces  as  on  the  men's,  except  that 
their  stronger  curiosity  could  not  constrain  itself.  Signora 


42  THE  LAND  OF  COCK  A  YNE 

Carmela  Naddeo  leant  forward  behind  her  fan,  and  asked 
Luisella : 

'  Who  is  that  starving  fellow,  my  dear  ?' 

'  Who  knows  ?'  said  the  other  impatiently. 

'  Cesarino  certainly  does  ;  he  is  handing  him  glasses  of 
wine.' 

'  Cesare  gathers  these  wretched  people  up  by  the  cart- 
load,' said  she,  shaking  with  rage. 

But  suddenly  a  subdued  whispered  word  ran  from  man  to 
man,  woman  to  woman— a  syllable  breathed  rather  than 
pronounced.  Who  first  said  this  hissing  word  ?  Who  was 
it  that  recognised  him,  and  softly  breathed  it  in  his  neigh- 
bour's ear  ?  Who  had  let  it  out,  the  unknown  secret  ?  No 
one  knows  !  But  in  a  second,  quick  as  a  flash  of  gunpowder, 
all  knew  and  repeated  the  mystic  word  throughout  the 
crimson  room.  It  came  back  on  itself,  its  letters  making 
a  magic  circle  that  went  round,  and  everyone  with  it. 
When  they  all  knew  who  the  man  was,  they  were  seized 
with  stupefaction ;  the  lamps  seemed  to  be  suddenly 
lowered,  their  lively  faces  got  pale,  even  the  covers  of  the 
furniture  lost  colour ;  there  was  a  deep  silence,  where  the 
magic  word  still  lingered  feebly :  '  The  medium — the 
medium.' 

Luisella  herself,  the  intrepid,  grew  pale ;  her  hands 
trembled  as  they  grasped  her  fan.  The  medium  had 
given  up  feeding ;  now  he  was  resting  quietly,  casting 
his  vague,  uncertain  glances  about,  not  knowing  what  to 
do  with  his  lean  yellow  hands.  A  little  blood  had  risen  in 
his  pale  cheeks,  under  the  black  beard  ;  but  it  was  in 
streaks,  a  sickly  colour,  the  effect  of  fever.  Still,  ugly,  dirty, 
miserable  as  he  was,  all  attention  was  concentrated  on  him 
— inquisitive,  wheedling,  obsequious  glances  were  directed  on 
him,  in  which  was  combined  fantastic  fear,  especially  on  the 
women's  part.  For  even  the  women,  in  a  nervous  tremor, 
said  to  one  another,  '  It  is  the  medium.'  A  circle  gradually 
surrounded  him,  getting  nearer,  as  if  by  a  strong  natural 
attraction — rather  anxious  faces,  where  one  could  notice 
the  vivid  working  of  Southern  imaginations,  in  this  land 
of  dreams  and  fantasies.  Shy  folk  were  now  joining  the 
bolder  ones  who  had  come  near  at  first,  overcome,  dreaming 
of  the  train  of  ministering  spirits,  good  and  bad,  who  are 
ever  warring  around  the  medium's  soul.  Don  Gennaro 
Parascandolo,  one  of  the  first  to  come  up,  found  himself 


AGNESINA  FRAGALA'S  CHRISTENING  43 

so  hemmed  in  that  he  turned  to  Cesare  Fragala,  and  said, 
smiling  rather  sceptically : 

'  Cesarino,  introduce  me  to  this  gentleman.' 

Cesare  was  much  embarrassed,  but,  seeing  no  way  out  of 
it,  he  caught  at  this  request,  and  said  quickly : 

1  Don  Gennaro  Parascandolo,  Pasqualino  De  Feo,  a  friend 
of  mine.' 

The  medium  smiled  vaguely  and  held  out  his  hand, 
which  Don  Gennaro  found  icy  cold,  though  damp  with 
perspiration,  one  of  those  repulsive  hands  that  make  one 
shudder.  But  not  a  word  was  said.  The  women  standing 
outside  the  circle,  not  daring  to  come  near,  asked  each  other, 
troubled  by  a  deep  longing : 

'  What  does  he  say  ?' 

'  He  says  nothing,'  Donna  Carmela  Naddeo  answered ; 
she  was  nearest,  and  never  took  her  eye  off  him. 

The  women  bit  their  lips,  the  men's  presence  intimidated 
them  ;  too  bashful  to  go  near,  they  shivered  with  impatience 
to  hear  the  fateful  words  of  the  man  living  in  constant 
communication  with  the  world  of  spirits,  who  heard  all  the 
hidden  truths  of  life  from  the  good  spirits,  who  was  told  by 
them  every  week  five,  or  at  least  three,  of  the  lottery 
numbers. 

What  was  he  saying  ?  Nothing.  For  long  hours  these 
people  stand  concentrated,  lost,  perhaps,  in  a  great  interior 
conflict,  listening  to  the  high  voices  that  speak  to  them. 
Now  and  then,  torn  from  their  visions,  they  pronounce 
some  fateful  phrase  that  contains  the  secret,  wrapped  up  in 
mysterious  words,  often  without  form,  that  those  of  strong 
faith  and  hope  can  miraculously  understand.  All,  men  and 
women,  overcome  by  a  great  dream,  suddenly  shaken  out 
of  daily  realities  into  the  ardent,  burning  region  of  visions, 
forgetting  the  present  moment,  listened  to  the  medium  as  if 
to  a  superhuman  voice. 

Don  Gennaro  Parascandolo  certainly  kept  up  a  well- 
informed  traveller's  smile ;  he  had  a  large,  secure  fortune, 
but  in  the  bottom  of  his  heart  the  old  Parthenope  instinct, 
for  big  gains,  illicit,  if  not  guilty,  costing  no  trouble,  unfore- 
seen, owed  to  chance,  combination,  or  getting  the  better  of 
Government,  all  came  so  naturally  to  a  man  who  knew  the 
secrets  of  hidden  things.  Certainly  all  these,  Fragalas, 
Antonaccis,  Naddeos,  Durantes,  were  accustomed  to  sell  stale 
sweets,  rough  earthenware,  moth-eaten  cloth,  and  stinking 


44  THE  LAND  OF  COCKAYNE 

cod,  in  dark  shops,  in  cold  storehouses  in  Via  Tribunali, 
Mercanti,  Petra  del  Pesce,  Marina ;  they  were  used  to  all 
the  dulness,  vulgarity  and  meanness  of  commerce,  where 
year  after  year,  by  putting  one  penny  on  another,  after  two  or 
three  generations,  a  fortune  came  ;  they  all  knew  the  value 
of  money,  of  work,  of  economy,  of  industry :  but  what  did 
that  matter  ?  To  be  able,  by  means  of  a  mysterious  phrase 
that  only  cost  the  trouble  of  picking  up,  of  interpreting,  to 
gain  big  sums  with  a  small  stake,  get  in  one  day  the  gains 
of  twenty  years'  trade  in  dry  cod,  or  forty  years'  trade  in 
sugar  and  sandy  coffee,  was  so  delightful  a  gift,  so  dazzling 
a  vision,  to  middle-class  ideas ! 

Certainly  all  these  clerks  and  tradesmen  looked  forward 
to  a  modest  future.  They  had  lived  on  nothing  ;  they  were 
living  on  very  little ;  they  wanted  to  have  a  little  more,  only 
that :  humble  in  their  wishes,  even.  But  the  sight  of  the 
medium,  a  shabby  fellow,  yet  so  powerful,  who  spoke  every 
night  with  supernal  and  infernal  spirits,  suddenly  threw  them 
into  a  fantastic  world,  where  poor  folk  get  miraculously  rich, 
where  they,  obscure  working  people,  might  become  gentle- 
men. Ah  !  Don  Domenico  Mayer,  the  nephew,  son,  brother, 
and  uncle  of  clerks,  had  faith  only  in  sacred  bureaucracy — a 
cold  career  of  silent  suffering.  Still,  buttoned  up  in  his  over- 
coat, he  left  his  family  in  the  corner  and  joined  the  group 
round  Pasqualino  De  Feo,  the  medium,  and  his  anxious, 
severe  expression  wavered  as  he,  too,  waited  for  the  phrase 
that  was  to  draw  him  away  in  a  day  from  the  sepulchral 
atmosphere  of  the  Finance  Department.  But  the  women's 
imaginations  were  the  most  feverish.  Certainly  at  least  ten 
of  them,  by  birth,  marriage,  by  their  own  efforts,  or  by  their 
relations  or  husbands,  were  rich ;  their  fortunes  were  easy, 
their  children's  future  secure.  Ten  at  least  enjoyed  the 
middle-class  luxury  of  brocaded  sofas,  jewels,  any  amount 
of  linen.  All  the  others,  by  their  modesty,  good  sense,  and 
economy,  by  their  own  virtues  or  their  parents',  had  every- 
thing that  was  necessary ;  but  a  lively  passion  for  dreams 
had  awakened  and  burned  in  them.  Their  souls  were  filled 
with  visions  of  comfort,  riches,  luxury ;  they  flew  through 
the  regions  of  desire  with  womanly  tremblings,  with  the 
force  and  intensity  the  quietest  women  put  into  these  sudden 
follies.  An  overwhelming  wish  to  know  the  great  secret 
seized  them  ;  crumbling  pyramids  of  gold  and  jewels  lit  flames 
in  their  eyes.  Even  the  old  Marchioness  of  Castelforte,  so 


AGNESINA  FRAGALA'S  CHRISTENING  45 

crooked,  such  a  ruin  of  a  woman,  a  solitary  remnant,  the  only 
one  of  her  family,  with  no  relations  or  heirs,  seventy  years 
old,  and  nothing  but  the  tomb  in  front  of  her,  got  up,  carrying 
her  velvet  bag,  and  set  her  coquettish  profile  between  two 
men's  shoulders.  Even  Donna  Carmela  Naddeo  strained 
her  ears,  trembling  with  curiosity,  rich  and  lucky  as  she 
was,  whispering  to  herself :  '  If  he  tells  me  the  numbers,  I 
will  buy  a  diamond  star  like  Luisella's.' 

The  medium  still  kept  silence,  so  that  Don  Gennaro  Para- 
scandolo,  feeling  the  impatience  of  the  whole  room  behind 
him,  risked  a  question  : 

'  Have  you  enjoyed  the  party,  Don  Pasqualino  ?' 

He  opened  his  mouth ;  at  last  a  low,  feverish  voice  came 
from  the  thin  blue  lips. 

'  Yes,'  he  said  ;  ' it  is  a  fine  christening.  The  baptism  of 
Christ  on  the  Jordan  was  fine,  too.' 

At  once  there  was  an  agitation  in  the  room,  commenting 
on  the  phrase,  trying  to  explain  it.  They  formed  into  circles 
and  groups,  the  women  discussing  it  among  themselves, 
whilst  the  number  thirty-three,  the  Redeemer's  number,  ran 
from  mouth  to  mouth. 

Placidly,  as  if  he  was  taking  a  note  of  a  bill  of  exchange, 
Don  Gennaro  Parascandolo  put  down  the  remark  in  his  note- 
book. Don  Domenico  Mayer  took  it,  too,  hiding  behind  a 
curtain,  without  losing  his  bureaucratic  and  misanthropic 
gravity.  The  old  Marchioness,  who  was  deaf,  went  about 
asking  wildly  :  '  What  did  he  say?  What  did  he  say?'  She 
ended  by  asking  Luisa  Fragala,  who  sat  motionless  with 
staring  eyes  beside  the  melancholy  Signora  Parascandolo. 
Luisa  could  only  say :  '  I  don't  know,  my  lady ;  I  did  not  hear.' 
However,  Don  Parascandolo  was  not  satisfied  ;  he  went  on : 

'  Did  you  enjoy  the  sweets,  Don  Pasqualino  ?  I  noticed 
you  seemed  to  like  them.' 

'  Yes,'  he  muttered  ;  '  I  eat,  but  I  don't  masticate.' 

'  Have  you  no  teeth  ?' 

'  No,  I  have  not.' 

He  cast  his  eyes  around  vaguely,  without  meeting  anyone's 
glance,  as  if  he  saw  things  from  beyond,  and  made  a  sign  with 
his  hand,  leaning  three  ringers  on  his  cheek. 

Again  the  same  murmur  and  agitation ;  there  was  un- 
certainty, too.  The  phrase  was  ambiguous,  very.  What 
did  the  motion  with  three  fingers  mean  ?  Even  Don 
Gennaro  Parascandolo,  whilst  taking  a  note,  stopped  to 


46  THE  LAND  OF  COCKAYNE 

think.  The  mystery  of  that  second  phrase,  of  the  gesture, 
let  loose  all  these  already  shuddering  fancies  of  a  super- 
natural world.  Faith,  faith,  that  was  what  was  needed  to 
understand  the  medium's  words !  Everyone,  calling  together 
all  the  powers  of  his  soul,  tried  to  have  a  sublime  burst  of 
faith,  to  know  the  truth,  how  to  translate  it  into  numbers, 
to  exchange  in  into  lottery  money. 

*  *  *  *  * 

Late  at  night,  when  the  house  was  emptied  of  people, 
Cesare  Fragala,  with  the  sleepy  servants,  went  putting  out 
the  lights,  shutting  the  doors,  as  he  prudently  did  every 
evening.  When  he  came  back  to  the  bedroom,  he  found 
Luisella  sitting  half  dressed  in  the  shade. 

Agnesina's  cradle  had  been  taken  into  the  nurse's  room  ; 
the  couple  were  alone.  Fatigue  seemed  to  keep  them 
silent.  Still,  on  coming  up  to  his  young  wife,  he  saw  she 
was  crying  quietly,  big  tears  rolling  down  her  cheeks. 

'  What  is  the  matter,  Luisella  ?  what  is  it  ?'  kissing  her, 
trembling  with  emotion  himself. 

'  There  is  nothing  the  matter,'  she  said,  still  weeping 
silently  in  the  shadow. 


CHAPTER  III 

IN    THE    CAVALCANTIS*    HOUSE 

PROSTRATE  on  the  dark  old  carved  wood  kneeling-desk, 
her  elbows  resting  on  velvet  cushions,  head  slightly  bent, 
her  face  hidden  in  her  hands,  Donna  Bianca  Maria  Caval- 
canti  seemed  to  meditate  after  praying.  As  long  as  twilight 
lighted  up  the  little  private  chapel  the  girl  went  on  reading 
a  chapter  of  the  '  Imitation  of  Christ,'  attentively,  in  her 
usual  thoughtful  attitude.  But  the  shadows  had  grown 
deeper  round  her,  first  faintly  purple,  then  gray,  enfolding 
the  little  altar  and  a  figure  of  Our  Lady  of  Sorrows,  with 
seven  silver  swords  radiating  from  her  heart,  hiding  a  three- 
quarter  figure  of  Jesus  Christ  bound  to  the  column,  the 
Ecce  Homo,  crowned  with  thorns,  and  bleeding  in  the  face, 
hands,  and  side,  blotting  out  Bianca  Maria's  slender,  neat 
figure.  Then  she  quietly  closed  the  torn  volume,  put  it  on 
the  cushion,  and  hid  her  face  in  her  hands.  Only  the  faint 
light  before  Our  Lady  of  Sorrows  shone  on  the  white, 
clasped  hands  and  the  knot  of  dark  brown  hair  on  her  neck. 
She  kept  so  motionless  for  some  time  that  the  white  figure 
in  the  shadow  of  the  little  chapel  looked  like  one  of  those 
praying  statues  that  medieval  piety  placed  on  tombs  to  kneel 
in  constant  prayer.  She  seemed  not  to  feel  the  hours 
passing  over  her  nor  the  faint,  cold  breath  the  autumn 
evening  brought  into  the  chapel.  Gazing  through  her 
fingers  at  the  Virgin's  sad  face,  she  seemed  to  go  on  praying 
and  meditating  as  if  nothing  could  wrest  her  from  it. 

Still,  as  evening  came  on  the  little  chapel  got  very  gloomy. 
In  the  daytime  it  was  a  poor,  cold  place,  being  only  a  narrow 
inside  room,  badly  lighted  by  a  window  looking  into  a  narrow 
court  of  the  Rossi,  formerly  the  Cavalcanti  Palace.  Once 
a  wretched  carpet  covered  the  floor,  but  it  was  so  old  and 
dusty  that  Bianca  Maria  had  it  taken  away.  The  floor  was 
bare  now,  of  shiny,  icy  bricks.  The  little  altar  was  painted 
dull  blue,  an  ecclesiastical  shade,  covered  by  a  rather  fine 


48  THE  LAND  OF  COCKA  YNE 

bit  of  linen,  though  yellow  with  age,  as  was  also  the  lace 
round  it.  Everything  was  old  and  shabby — the  candle- 
sticks, the  printed  prayers  in  metal  cases,  the  red-leather- 
covered  missal,  the  poor  silver  sprays  of  leaves  placed  as 
sacred  ornaments,  and  the  little  gilt  wooden  door,  behind 
which  was  the  Pyx.  By  day  Our  Lady  of  Sorrows,  in 
black  silk,  embroidered  in  gold,  with  a  batiste  nun's  head- 
dress, and  the  seven  swords  in  her  heart,  looked  wretched 
and  poor,  carrying  a  lace  and  batiste  handkerchief  in  her 
pink  stucco  hands.  The  great  Ecce  Homo,  too,  life  size,  of 
wood  and  stucco,  looked  as  poor  as  its  surroundings.  In 
spite  of  the  carved  wood  chairs,  with  the  Cavalcanti  crest 
on  the  velvet  cushions,  the  chapel  had  a  look  of  frozen 
wretchedness,  showing  by  daylight  faded  colours,  tarnished 
metals,  stains  in  the  velvet.  Even  the  two  lamps  that 
burned  night  and  day  before  the  Virgin  and  the  Saviour 
were  only  two  yellow  sputtering  tongues  of  flame. 

But  at  night — and  that  night,  curiously  enough,  only  one 
lamp  was  burning,  that  before  the  Virgin — the  wretchedness 
disappeared ;  only  great  fluttering  shadows  filled  the  chapel. 
One  could  not  see  the  colour  of  the  wood  and  metal ;  only 
the  white  altar-cloth  was  visible.  There  were  no  sparks  of 
brightness,  only  in  the  trembling  light  Mary's  sad  face 
seemed  agonized ;  and  as  the  flame,  shaken  by  an  invisible 
breath  of  wind,  bent  to  the  right  or  left,  Jesus'  hands  and 
side  seemed  really  to  bleed. 

Bianca  Maria  was  deep  .in  thought,  and,  accustomed  to 
the  chapel,  she  felt  neither  the  cold  nor  the  gloom.  Sud- 
denly she  trembled,  thinking  she  heard  a  great  noise  in  the 
room.  It  was  then  she  noticed  the  lamp  before  Christ  was 
out.  She  shivered  with  cold  and  fear.  The  Virgin  seemed 
to  weep  over  her  bleeding  Son's  agony.  Bianca  Maria  went 
quickly  out  of  the  chapel,  taking  her  book  with  her,  cross- 
ing herself  hurriedly  as  if  followed  by  some  evil  spirit. 

In  the  antechamber  an  old  servant  in  the  Cavalcanti 
livery — dull  blue,  piped  with  white — sat  reading  an  old 
newspaper  by  the  light  of  one  of  those  old  brass  lamps  with 
three  spouts  one  still  sees  in  the  provinces  and  in  very 
aristocratic  houses.  He  rose  as  he  heard  Bianca  Maria's 
light  step,  looking  her  in  the  eyes. 

'  Giovanni,'  she  said,  in  her  pure  harmonious  voice,  '  in 
the  chapel  the  lamp  before  the  Ecce  Homo  has  gone 
out.' 


IN  THE  CA  VALCANTIS1  HOUSE  49 

The  old  servant  looked  at  her,  and  hesitated  a  little  before 
answering. 

'  I  did  not  light  it,'  he  then  muttered,  casting  down  his 
eyes,  and  crushing  up  the  paper  in  his  lean  hands. 

'  Perhaps  you  had  no  oil  ?'  she  asked,  with  a  little  tremor 
in  her  voice,  turning  her  anxious  face  towards  him. 

'  No,  my  lady,  no,'  the  servant  eagerly  answered  at  once. 
'  There  is  lots  of  oil  in  the  pantry.  It  was  by  the  Marquis's 
orders  I  did  not  light  the  lamp.' 

'  Did  he  give  you  such  an  order  ?'  she  asked,  amazed, 
arching  her  eyebrows. 

'  Yes,  my  lady.' 

'  For  what  reason  ?' 

But  she  regretted  the  question  at  once.  It  seemed  to 
fail  in  the  profound  respect  she  owed  her  father.  Still,  the 
word  had  rushed  out.  She  would  have  liked  to  go  away 
and  not  hear  the  answer,  whatever  it  was  ;  but  she  feared 
to  make  matters  worse,  and  listened  with  open  eyes,  ready 
to  restrain  her  astonishment  and  fear. 

'  The  Marquis  is  in  a  rage  with  Jesus  Christ,'  the  servant 
said,  in  that  humble  but  familiar  tone  in  which  the  common 
folk  in  Naples  often  speak  of  the  Deity.  '  Last  Saturday  he 
asked  a  great  favour  of  that  miracle-working  Ecce  Homo,  but 
he  did  not  get  it.  Then  the  Marquis  gave  orders  the  lamp 
was  not  to  be  lighted  again.' 

<  Did  the  Marquis  tell  you  that  ?' 

'  Yes,  my  lady  ;  but  if  you  like,  I  will  go  and  light  it.' 

'  Obey  the  Marquis,'  she  murmured  coldly,  as  she  went 
on  towards  the  drawing-room. 

As  she  wandered  about  alone  in  the  spacious  room,  ill- 
lighted  by  a  petroleum-lamp,  she  searched  for  her  work- 
basket  and  could  not  find  it,  though  she  passed  it  twenty 
times  without  seeing  it.  She  still  bitterly  repented  having 
asked  the  servant  that  question,  since  throughout  the  ever- 
increasing  family  decay  what  most  embittered  her  was  to  be 
obliged  to  judge  her  father  before  servants  or  strangers.  It 
was  in  vain  she  shut  her  eyes  so  as  not  to  see,  that  she  spent 
her  days  in  her  room,  the  chapel,  and  the  Sacramentiste 
convent  where  her  aunt  was  ;  in  vain  she  kept  silence,  try- 
ing not  to  hear  what  others  said  :  Margherita,  who  was  the 
maid,  and  Giovanni's  wife's  remarks,  her  aunt  the  nun's  un- 
easy questions,  and  the  hints  of  some  old  relations  who  came 
to  see  her  now  and  then  ;  they  spoke  so  pityingly,  it  brought 

4 


50  THE  LAND  OF  COCKAYNE 

tears  to  her  eyes.  She  had  to  lower  her  eyes,  for  she  could 
not  help  judging  her  father  inwardly  as  they  shook  their 
heads,  pitying  her,  What  shook  her  most  throughout  the 
financial  difficulties  she  vainly  tried  to  hide  in  that  decent 
poverty  that  could  not  be  kept  secret  much  longer  were  her 
father's  unexpected,  vexatious,  often  wild,  eccentricities. 

Now,  quieted  down  a  little,  seated  by  a  square  baize 
card-table,  where  the  single  lamp  was  placed,  she  worked 
at  her  fine  pillow-lace,  moving  the  bobbins  and  thread 
quickly  over  the  pinned-out  pattern.  Perhaps  she  would 
have  liked  better  to  call  in  Margherita  to  work  with  her  at 
mending  the  house  linen,  which  the  old  woman  blinded 
herself  at  in  her  little  room.  But  Don  Carlo  Cavalcanti, 
Marquis  di  Formosa,  was  very  proud  ;  he  never  would 
have  allowed  a  servant  in  the  drawing-room,  nor  permitted 
his  daughter  to  stoop  to  such  humble  work.  Bianca  Maria 
would  have  liked  to  spend  the  evening  in  her  own  room 
reading  or  working,  but  her  father  liked  to  find  her  in  the 
drawing-room  when  he  came  in  every  evening.  He  called 
it  the  salone  pompously,  not  noticing  its  bareness  ;  for  the 
four  narrow  sofas  of  discoloured  green  brocade,  the  twelve 
slight  hard  chairs  put  along  the  wall,  the  couple  of  painted 
gray  marble  brackets,  and  two  card-tables,  with  small  bits 
of  carpet  before  each  sofa  and  chair,  being  lost  in  the 
immensity,  increased  the  deserted  look.  The  petroleum- 
lamp,  too,  just  lit  up  the  table  Bianca  Maria  was  sitting  at, 
and  her  hands,  whiter  than  the  thread,  as  they  moved  over 
the  dark  pillow-lace.  She  stopped  sometimes,  as  if  an 
engrossing  thought  occupied  her  ;  the  hands  fell  down  as  if 
tired  ;  the  young,  thoughtful  face  gave  a  quiver. 

'  Good-evening,'  said  a  strong  voice  at  her  elbow. 

She  got  up  at  once,  put  down  the  pillow-lace,  went  up  to 
her  father,  and  bent  down  to  kiss  his  hand.  The  Marquis 
di  Formosa  accepted  the  homage  ;  then  he  lightly  touched 
his  daughter's  forehead  with  his  hand,  half  tenderly,  half  as 
a  blessing.  She  stood  a  minute  waiting  for  him  to  sit 
before  she  did ;  but  seeing  he  had  begun  to  walk  up  and 
down  through  the  room,  as  he  had  a  habit  of  doing,  she 
looked  at  him  for  permission.  He  gave  it  with  a  nod,  and 
went  on  with  his  walk.  On  sitting  down,  she  took  up  her 
work,  waiting  to  be  addressed  before  speaking. 

The  Marquis  di  Formosa's  still  springy,  firm  step  filled 
the  empty  room  with  echoes.  He  was  a  fine-looking  man, 


IN  THE  CAVALCANTIS  HOUSE  51 

in  spite  of  his  sixty  years  and  his  snow-white  hair.  Tall, 
graceful,  dried  up  rather  than  thin,  even  at  that  advanced 
age  there  was  much  nobleness  and  strength  in  his  head  and 
his  whole  person,  but  sudden  flushes  over  his  face  gave  him 
a  violent  look.  The  gray  eyes,  strong  nose,  the  thick  white 
moustache  and  ample  forehead  inspired  respect.  It  was 
said  that  when  the  Marquis  di  Formosa  was  young  he  had 
made  more  than  one  woman  of  Ferdinand  II.'s  Court  to 
sin.  He  was  said  to  have  been  a  successful  rival  to  the 
King  himself  with  a  Sicilian  dame,  and  that  in  the  bloodless 
strife  of  gallantry  he  had  got  the  better  of  the  greatest 
gallant  in  the  Bourbon  Ministry,  the  Don  Juan  of  his 
day,  the  celebrated  Minister  of  Police,  Marquis  del  Carretto. 
His  imperiousness  certainly,  which  had  increased  with  age, 
gave  the  Marquis  a  hard  look,  and  rather  a  disagreeable 
expression  sometimes. 

But  his  family's  antiquity,  that  boasted  descent  from  the 
great  Guido  Cavalcanti,  his  high  position  and  natural 
haughtiness  authorized  some  imperiousness.  Now  the 
Marquis  was  growing  old :  his  sparkling  glance  was  often 
dulled,  his  tall  majestic  figure  stooped  in  spite  of  his  lean- 
ness. Still,  he  imposed  great  respect.  His  daughter 
Bianca  Maria  gave  a  respectful  shiver  when  she  saw  him 
coming,  and  all  her  own  and  other  people's  unfavourable 
judgments  on  him  went  out  of  her  mind. 

'  Were  you  at  the  convent  to-day  ?'  asked  the  Marquis  on 
passing  near  his  daughter. 

'  Yes,  father.' 

'  Is  Maria  degli  Angioli  well  ?' 

'  She  is  quite  well.     She  would  like  to  see  you.' 

'  I  have  no  time  now  ;  I  have  important  business — most 
important,'  he  said,  with  a  wave  of  his  hand. 

She  kept  silence,  working  diligently  to  keep  herself  from 
asking  questions. 

'  Did  Maria  degli  Angioli  complain  much  of  me  ?'  he  asked, 
without  stopping  his  excited  walk. 

'  No,'  she  said  timidly ;  '  she  would  like  to  see  you,  as  I 
said.' 

'  To  see  me — see  me  ?  To  recount  her  woes,  and  hear  all 
about  mine  ?  A  fine  way  of  filling  up  the  time.  Well,  if 
she  liked,  if  she  chose,  our  woes  would  soon  be  ended.' 

Bianca  Maria's  trembling  hand  entangled  the  thread 
round  the  bobbins  and  pins  of  the  pattern. 

4—2 


52  THE  LAND  OF  COCKAYNE 

1  These  holy  women,'  the  Marquis  di  Formosa  went  on 
slowly,  as  if  he  were  speaking  in  a  dream — 'these  holy 
women,  who  are  always  praying,  have  pure  hearts ;  they  are 
in  God's  favour  and  the  saints'  ;  they  enjoy  special  protec- 
tion ;  they  see  things  we  poor  sinners  cannot.  Sister  Maria 
degli  Angioli  might  save  us  if  she  liked,  but  she  won't.  She 
is  too  saintly,  she  does  not  care  for  earthly  things.  Now, 
our  sufferings  don't  signify  to  her  ;  she  knows  nothing  about 
them.  She  never  will  tell  me  anything  ;  never — never.' 

Bianca  Maria  looked  up,  let  the  work  fall  from  her  hands, 
and  gazed  at  her  father,  her  eyes  full  of  wondering  pain. 

'  You  have  never  asked  her  for  anything,  have  you, 
Bianca  ?'  he  said,  stopping  beside  his  daughter. 

'  For  what  ?'  she  asked,  wondering. 

1  Maria  degli  Angioli  loves  you.  She  knows  you  are  un- 
happy ;  she  would  have  told  you  everything,  to  help  you. 
Why  did  you  not  ask  her  ?'  he  went  on  in  an  excited  voice, 
a  storm  of  rage  rising  in  it. 

'  What  should  I  ask  ?'  she  repeated,  still  more  frightened. 

'You  pretend  not  to  understand!'  he  shouted,  in  a  fury 
already.  '  These  women  are  all  alike,  a  flock  of  sheep,  silly 
and  egotistical.  What  do  you  speak  about  by  the  hour 
together  in  the  convent  parlour  ?  WThose  death  do  you 
weep  over  ?  Think  of  the  living !  Don't  you  see  the 
Cavalcanti  family  is  going  down  to  misery,  dishonour,  and 
death  ?' 

'  May  God  avert  it !'  she  whispered,  crossing  herself 
devoutly. 

'  Women  are  selfish  fools  !'  he  shouted,  enraged  at  her  soft- 
ness, at  finding  no  resistance  ;  '  and  I  who  think  of  nothing 
else  from  morning  till  night,  who  kneel  before  the  holy 
images  morning  and  evening,  for  the  preservation  of  the 
Cavalcanti !  And  you  who,  by  asking  your  aunt  the  secrets 
of  her  dreams,  could  save  me  and  the  name  by  a  word — you 
pretend  not  to  understand !  Ungrateful  and  treacherous, 
like  all  women  !' 

She  put  down  her  head  and  bit  her  lips,  so  as  not  to  burst 
into  sobs.  Then,  in  a  trembling  voice,  she  replied  : 

'  I'll  ask  her  at  some  other  time.' 

'  Ask  her  to-morrow,'  her  father  retorted  imperiously. 
'  I  will  do  it  to-morrow,  then.' 

Quickly  his  rage  fell,  suddenly  calmed.  He  came  up  to 
her  and  touched  her  bent  forehead,  with  his  usual  caress  and 


IN  THE  CAVALCANTIS  HOUSE  53 

blessing.     Then,  as  if  she  could   not  help  it,   feeling   her 
heart  bursting,  she  began  to  cry  silently. 

'  Don't  cry,  Bianca  Maria,'  he  said  quietly.  '  I  have  great 
hopes.  We  have  been  so  long  unhappy,  Providence  must 
be  getting  ready  a  great  joy  for  us.  It  is  not  given  to  us  to 
know  the  time,  naturally,  but  it  can't  be  far  off.  If  it  is 
not  one  week,  it  will  be  another.  What  are  hours,  days, 
months,  in  comparison  to  the  great  fortune  getting  ready 
for  us  in  secret  ?  We  will  be  so  rich,  all  this  long  past  of 
privation  and  obscurity  will  seem  a  short  dream  of  agony, 
an  hour  of  darkness  faded  in  the  light  of  the  sun.  Who 
knows  what  instrument  Providence  will  use  ?  —  perhaps 
Maria  degli  Angioli,  who  is  a  good  soul.  You  will  ask  her 
to-morrow,  won't  you  ?  Perhaps  some  other  good  spirit 
among  my  friends  who  see  .  .  .  perhaps  myself,  unworthy 
sinner  as  I  am — but  I  feel  Providence  will  save  us.  But  by 
what  means?  If  I  could  only  know!'  He  had  started 
walking  up  and  down  again,  still  speaking  to  himself,  as  if 
he  was  accustomed  to  think  aloud.  Only  now  and  then,  in 
the  midst  of  his  excitement,  he  noticed  his  daughter,  and 
took  up  his  obstinate  harping  on  one  idea  with  her  again  : 
'  Where  else,  Bianca,  can  rescue  come  from  ?  Work  ?  I 
am  old  ;  you  are  a  girl.  The  Cavalcantis  have  never  known 
how  to  work,  either  in  youth  or  old  age.  Business  ?  We 
are  people  whose  only  business  was  to  spend  our  own  money 
generously.  Only  a  large  fortune,  gained  in  a  single  day. 
.  .  .  You  will  see,  we'll  get  it.  I  am  sure  of  it ;  a  thousand 
dreams  and  revelations  have  told  me  so.  You  will  see. 
You  will  have  horses  and  carriages  again,  Bianca  Maria :  a 
victoria  for  the  promenade  on  the  Chiai  shore,  where  you 
will  take  your  place  again  ;  an  elegant  shut  carriage  to  go 
to  San  Carlo  in  the  evening.  You'll  see.  I  want  to  buy 
you  a  pearl  necklace — eight  strings  joined  by  a  single 
sapphire — and  a  diamond  coronet,  as  all  the  women  of  the 
Cavalcanti  family  have  had,  till  your  mother.'  He  stopped 
as  he  mentioned  her,  as  if  a  sudden  emotion  seized  him ; 
but  gazing  on  his  dream  of  luxury  and  splendour  quickly 
distracted  him.  '  Open  house  every  day.  We  will  think  of 
the  poor  and  starving — so  many  want  help  ;  we  will  pour  out 
alms — so  many  suffer.  I  have  made  a  vow,  too,  to  give 
dowries  to  honest  poor  girls.  I  have  made  so  many  other 
vows  so  as  to  get  this  favour.' 

He  stopped  speaking,   as  if  gazing  through  the  room's 


54  THE  LAND  OF  COCKA  YNE 

darkness  on  fortune's  splendid  mirage  that  excited  fancy 
brought  before  his  eyes.  His  daughter  got  calm  and 
thoughtful  again  as  she  listened  to  him.  Her  father's  voice 
in  the  usual  rhapsodies  of  his  overheated  soul  sounded  in 
her  heart  with  anguished  echoes,  like  a  slow  torment. 

It  is  true  she  did  not  believe  in  the  visions,  but  her 
father's  impetuous,  angry,  tender  phrases  frightened  her 
every  evening.  She  could  not  get  accustomed  to  these 
bursts  of  passion  that  made  her  peace-loving  soul  start  and 
shiver. 

'  Signor  Marzano,'  Giovanni  announced. 

A  little  bent  old  man  came  in  with  a  rough,  pepper-and- 
salt  moustache,  his  eyes  piercing  and  at  the  same  time  soft. 
He  was  very  plainly  dressed.  On  passing  near  Bianca 
Maria  he  greeted  her  gently,  and  silently  asked  permission 
to  keep  his  hat  on.  He  held  his  Indian  cane,  too.  Falling 
into  step  with  the  Marquis,  the  two  walked  up  and  down  to- 
gether, speaking  in  a  very  low  voice.  When  they  passed  near 
the  light,  one  saw  the  advocate's  eyes  sparkling  with  satisfac- 
tion, and  his  rather  military  moustache  moving  as  if  he  was 
making  mental  calculations.  Sometimes  Bianca  Maria,  who 
busied  herself  more  and  more  in  her  work  so  as  not  to  hear, 
caught  involuntarily  some  cabalistic  jargon  of  her  father's  or 
Marzano' s. 

'  The  cadenza  of  seven  must  win.' 

'  We  might  also  get  the  two  of  ritorno.' 

'  Playing  for  situazione  is  too  risky.1 

'  A  bigliettone  is  needed.' 

They  went  on  speaking,  quite  absorbed,  their  eyes  flashing, 
lost  in  these  fancies  that  falsely  take  the  precision  and  fasci- 
nation of  mathematics,  when  Giovanni  again  came  in,  to 
announce,  '  Dr.  Trifari.' 

A  man  about  thirty  came  in,  strong -limbed  and  stout, 
with  a  big  head,  too  short  a  neck,  a  red  curly  beard  that 
made  his  face  even  redder  than  it  was,  swollen  lips,  and 
blue,  staring,  suspicious  eyes  that  did  not  inspire  confidence. 
He  was  roughly  dressed :  a  tight  collar  rasped  his  neck,  a 
big  sham  diamond  pin  shone  in  his  black  silk  tie,  and  he  still 
had  a  provincial  air,  in  spite  of  his  University  degree.  He 
hardly  greeted  Bianca  Maria,  put  his  hat  on  a  side-table,  and 
went  to  the  Marquis  di  Formosa's  other  side.  All  three 
marched  up  and  down  more  quietly.  Sometimes  Dr.  Trifari 
said  a  word,  or  gesticulated  violently,  speaking  in  a  whisper 


IN  THE  CA  VALCANTIS  HOUSE  55 

all  the  same,  his  squinting  glance  questioning  his  audience 
and  the  shades  around  as  if  he  feared  to  be  betrayed. 

The  learned  Marquis  di  Formosa  kept  up  his  vivacious 
look  like  a  headstrong  old  man ;  Marzano  persisted  in 
laughing  good  -  naturedly  with  his  cunning,  gentle  eyes ; 
whilst  Dr.  Trifari  went  about  cautiously,  as  if  he  always 
feared  being  cheated.  When  the  two  old  men  raised  their 
voices  a  little,  he  quickly  signed  to  them  repressively, 
pointing  at  the  doors  and  windows  ;  he  went  so  far  as  to 
point  to  Bianca  Maria.  The  Marquis  waved  his  hand 
tolerantly,  as  if  to  say  she  was  an  innocent  creature,  when 
again  Giovanni  came  in,  to  announce,  '  Professor  Colaneri.' 

At  once  on  seeing  him,  one  guessed  he  was  an  unfrocked 
priest.  A  thick  black  beard  had  grown  on  his  shaven  cheeks ; 
but  the  hair  cut  short  on  the  forehead,  and  growing  thinly 
over  the  tonsure,  kept  the  ecclesiastical  cut.  The  shape  of 
his  hand,  where  the  crooked  thumb  seemed  joined  to  the  first 
finger ;  the  way  he  settled  his  spectacles  on  his  nose  ;  his 
trick  of  putting  two  fingers  in  his  collar  to  widen  it,  as  if  it 
was  the  tight  priest's  collar ;  his  way  of  making  his  glance 
fall  from  above — his  features  and  movements  altogether  were 
so  clerical,  one  quickly  understood  his  character. 

Formosa  received  him  rather  coldly,  as  usual ;  the  apostate 
gave  his  religious  mind  a  repulsive  shudder.  Colaneri,  too, 
spoke  very  cautiously ;  four  could  not  walk  about  without 
speaking  aloud,  so  they  stood  in  a  dark  window  recess.  It 
was  there  Ninetto  Costa  came  to  join  them,  a  dark,  hand- 
some fellow,  showing  the  whitest  of  teeth  in  a  continuous 
smile  ;  he  was  one  of  the  luckiest  stockbrokers  on  the 
Naples  Exchange. 

Last  of  all,  Giovanni  announced  one  man  in  a  whisper, 
negligently,  '  Don  Crescenzio,'  a  type  between  a  clerk  and 
an  agent,  who  slipped  into  the  room  rather  timidly ;  still,  he 
was  treated  as  an  equal.  The  discussion  between  the  six 
men  grew  warm  in  the  window  recess,  but  they  kept  their 
voices  low. 

Bianca  Maria  went  on  working  mechanically.  She  felt 
dreadfully  embarrassed  ;  she  dared  not  go  away  without 
asking  her  father's  permission,  and  she  felt  she  was  out  of 
place  in  the  room.  This  mysterious  talk,  in  an  incompre- 
hensible, mad  jargon,  all  so  excited  and  eager,  rolling  their 
eyes  about  so  sternly ;  a  growing  madness  in  their  glances ; 
their  faces  pale  and  then  flushed  from  making  such  violent 


56  THE  LAND  OF  COCKA  YNE 

gestures,  disturbed  her  at  first,  and  ended  by  frightening 
her.  Her  father  especially  seemed  lost  in  the  midst  of  all 
these  madmen,  some  of  them  coldly,  others  wildly,  interested, 
and  all  extremely  obstinate.  She  looked  at  him  sometimes 
in  despair,  as  if  she  saw  him  drowning,  and  could  not  take 
a  step  or  give  a  cry  to  help  him.  Just  then  the  six  men 
came  slowly  filing  out  of  the  window  recess,  and  sat  down 
round  another  card-table,  where  there  was  no  light.  They 
drew  in  their  chairs  to  get  closer  together,  put  their  elbows 
on  the  table,  leaning  their  heads  on  their  hands,  and  all 
began  talking  at  once  in  the  half-light,  whispering  in  each 
other's  faces,  breathing  out  the  words,  looking  each  other 
straight  in  the  eyes,  as  if  they  were  using  magic  and 
charms. 

Bianca  Maria  could  stand  it  no  longer.  Making  as  little 
noise  as  possible,  she  wrapped  up  her  lace  pillow  in  a  strip 
of  black  linen,  got  up  without  moving  her  chair,  so  as  not 
to  make  a  sound,  and  went  out  of  the  big  room  quickly,  as 
if  she  feared  to  be  called  back,  with  a  frightened  feeling  as 
if  someone  were  following  her.  She  was  slightly  reassured 
only  as  she  got  into  her  own  room.  It  was  plain  and  clean, 
rather  cold-looking,  a  good,  pious  girl's  room,  full  of  holy 
images,  rosaries,  and  Easter  candles.  Margherita,  the 
servant,  came  to  join  her,  having  heard  her  step.  With 
humble  affection  she  asked  if  she  was  going  to  bed. 

'  No,  no ;  I  am  not  sleepy.  I  will  wait.  I  have  not  said 
good-night  to  my  father.' 

'  The  Marquis  will  sit  up  till  all  hours,'  the  maid  muttered. 
'  You  will  get  tired  waiting  here  all  alone.' 

*  I  will  read.     I  wish  to  wait.' 

The  old  servant  obediently  disappeared. 

Bianca  Maria  took  from  a  little  shelf  a  religious  novel  of 
Pauline  Craven's,  '  Le  Mot  de  I'Enigme,'  a  pious,  consolatory 
book.  But  her  mind  would  not  be  soothed  that  evening  by 
the  French  author's  gentle  words.  Sometimes  the  girl 
listened  intently  to  find  out  if  her  father's  friends  were  going 
away  or  if  others  were  coming.  There  was  nothing — not  a 
sound.  The  great  weekly  mysterious  conspiracy  was  going 
on,  breathed  out  from  face  to  face  as  if  it  was  a  frightful 
piece  of  witchcraft.  This  impression  grew  so  on  Bianca 
Maria's  mind,  that  now  even  the  silence  frightened  her. 
She  tried  again  two  or  three  times  to  read  the  charming 
book,  but  her  eyes  rested  on  the  printed  lines  without  seeing 


IN  THE  CA  VALCANTIS'  HOUSE  57 

them.  The  sense  of  the  words  she  forced  herself  to  read 
escaped  her.  Her  whole  mind  was  taken  up  listening  to 
the  noises  in  the  drawing-room.  Silence  still,  as  if  not  a 
living  soul  was  there.  She  shut  the  book  and  called  the 
servant,  not  feeling  able  to  bear  that  solitude  full  of  ghosts. 

Margherita  hastened  in,  and  silently  awaited  her  young 
mistress's  orders. 

'  Let  us  say  the  Rosary,'  she  whispered. 

Sometimes,  when  the  hours  seemed  longest  to  the  lonely 
scion  of  the  Cavalcanti,  when  sleeplessness  kept  her  eyes 
open,  when  her  fancies  got  too  lugubrious,  she  loved  to  pray 
aloud  with  her  maid  to  cheat  time,  hours  of  watching, 
nervousness.  She  dreaded  speaking  to  servants — her 
natural  pride  made  her  avoid  it ;  but  praying  together 
seemed  to  her  only  a  simple  act  of  Christian  humility. 

'  Let  us  say  the  Rosary,'  she  repeated,  seating  herself  by 
her  white  bed. 

Margherita  sat  near  the  door,  at  a  respectful  distance. 
Bianca  Maria  said  the  first  prayers,  the  Mystery,  and  half 
of  the  Pater  Noster ;  Margherita  said  the  other  part.  The 
same  with  the  Ave  Marias:  the  first  part  Bianca  Maria 
said  ;  Margherita  took  it  up  and  finished  it.  They  prayed 
in  a  low  tone,  but  one  could  easily  distinguish  the  voices, 
always  taking  up  their  part  of  the  prayer  in  time.  At  every 
ten  Ave  Marias,  or  Stations  of  the  Rosary,  they  piously 
crossed  themselves,  and  bent  their  heads  low  in  reverence 
to  the  Holy  Ghost  at  every  Gloria  Patri. 

Thus,  between  mystical  absorption  in  prayer,  the  natural 
emotion  these  familiar,  but  poetical  supplications  aroused, 
and  the  sound  of  her  own  voice,  the  girl  forgot  for  a  little 
the  great  drama  developing  round  her  father.  The  whole 
Rosary  was  said  thus,  slowly,  with  the  piety  of  real 
believers.  Before  beginning  the  Litany  to  the  Virgin  she 
knelt  at  her  chair,  with  her  elbows  on  the  seat,  and  the 
maid  knelt  in  her  corner.  The  girl  invoked  the  Virgin  in 
Latin,  with  all  the  tender  names  her  devotees  use,  and  the 
servant  answered  '  Ora  pro  nobis.'  But  from  the  beginning  of 
the  Litany  a  rising  sound  of  voices  reached  from  the  draw- 
ing-room. This  noise  disturbed  Bianca  Maria's  prayers. 
She  tried  not  to  listen  to  it  by  raising  her  voice  more ;  but 
it  was  impossible  now  to  abstract  herself  from  that  clash  of 
voices  getting  excited  and  angry. 

'  What  can  it  be  ?'  she  said,  stopping  in  her  intercessions. 


58  THE  LAND  OF  COCKA  YNE 

'  It  is  nothing,'  said  Margherita.  '  They  are  speaking 
about  lottery  numbers.' 

'  They  seem  to  me  to  be  quarrelling,'  Bianca  Maria 
timidly  replied. 

'  They  will  make  friends  again  on  Saturday  evening,' 
Margherita  muttered,  with  her  commonplace  philosophy. 

'  How  so  ?'  the  girl  asked,  letting  herself  be  drawn  into 
the  discussion. 

'  Because  none  of  them  will  win  anything.' 

'  Let  us  pray,'  said  Bianca,  raising  her  eyes  to  the  ceiling, 
as  if  gazing  on  the  starry  firmament. 

It  was  impossible  now  to  finish  the  Litany.  The  dis- 
cussion in  the  drawing-room  had  got  so  warm,  they  heard 
it  all,  the  voices  coming  near  and  going  off,  as  if  the  Cabalists 
had  risen  from  the  table  and  were  walking  up  and  down 
again,  with  the  need  excited  people  have  of  going  backwards 
and  forwards  and  round  about. 

'  Shall  I  shut  the  door  ?'  asked  Margherita. 

'  Shut  it ;  we  are  praying,'  Bianca  Maria  said  resignedly. 

The  voices  did  not  come  in  so  distinctly.  They  could 
follow  the  Litany  to  the  end  without  interruption.  But  the 
girl's  mind  was  no  longer  in  the  words  she  was  saying. 
She  was  quite  distracted,  and  hurried  through  the  finishing 
Salve  Regina  as  if  time  pressed. 

'  The  Madonna  bless  your  ladyship !'  said  Margherita, 
getting  up  after  crossing  herself. 

'  Thank  you,'  the  young  girl  answered  simply,  sitting 
down  again  beside  her  bed,  where  she  spent  so  many  hours 
of  the  day  thinking  and  reading. 

Margherita  had  left  the  door  open  as  she  went  away. 
Now  the  voices  burst  out  angrily.  The  enraged  Cabalists 
argued  furiously  with  each  other,  each  one  boasting  loudly 
of  his  own  way  of  getting  lottery  numbers,  his  own  re- 
searches, his  own  visions,  each  one  trying  to  take  the  word 
from  the  other,  interrupting,  screaming  louder,  being  inter- 
rupted in  turn. 

'You  don't  believe  in  Cifariello  the  cobbler's  talent?' 
Marzano  the  lawyer  shouted  with  the  white  fury  of  very 
gentle,  good-natured  people.  '  Perhaps  because  he  is  a 
cobbler,  and  perhaps  because  he  writes  out  his  problems  with 
charcoal  on  a  dirty  bit  of  white  paper !  Here  it  is,  here  it 
is  !  Twenty-seven  has  come  out  second  instead  of  fourth, 
but  it  came  out !  Here  is  eighty-four,  that  turned  round 


IN  THE  CA  VALCANTIS  HOUSE  59 

and  became  forty-eight,  but  it  did  come  out  !  Here  is  the 
ambo  made  up  of  fourteen  and  seventy-nine  I  was  so  un- 
lucky as  to  give  up  playing;  it  came  out  three  weeks  after 
I  gave  it  up.  These  are  facts,  gentlemen— facts,  not  words!' 

'  They  are  the  sixty  francs  a  month  you  give  him  to  leave 
off  cobbling  and  work  out  numbers  for  you  !'  Dr.  Trifari 
interrupted  sharply. 

'  Cifariello  is  ignorant,  but  sincere  ;  he  gave  me  fourteen 
and  seventy-nine,  and  I  did  not  go  on  with  it.' 

'  Father  Illuminate  gave  me  fourteen  and  seventy-nine, 
too,'  Dr.  Trifari  retorted,  '  but  it  was  the  right  week.' 

'  And  you  won  without  letting  your  friends  know  ?'  the 
Marquis  di  Formosa  asked  excitedly. 

'  I  won  nothing.  I  divided  it  into  two  different  tickets. 
I  did  not  understand  what  a  fortune  Father  Illuminato  was 
giving  me.  He  is  the  only  one  that  knows  numbers.  He 
holds  our  fortunes,  our  future,  in  his  hands.  It  is  a  queer 
thing.  When  I  felt  his  pulse  to  see  if  he  had  fever,  I  went 
trembling  all  over.' 

'  Father  Illuminato  is  an  egotist !'  Professor  Colaneri 
hissed  out  in  a  sarcastic,  biting  voice. 

'  You  say  that  because  he  turned  you  out  of  his  house  one 
day.  You  tried  to  get  the  numbers  out  of  him  by  force.  He 
won't  give  them  to  priests  who  have  thrown  off  the  habit. 
Father  Illuminato  is  a  believer.' 

'I  see  the  numbers  myself!'  Colaneri  called  out  shrilly. 
'  It  is  enough  for  me  to  take  no  supper  the  night  before, 
when  I  go  to  bed,  and  to  meditate  an  hour  or  two  before 
sleeping :  then  I  see  them,  you  know.' 

'  But  they  don't  come  out  right !'  shouted  the  Marquis  di 
Formosa. 

'  They  don't  come  out  right  because  my  mind  is  clouded 
by  human  interests  ;  because  I  can't  free  myself  from  a 
longing  to  win ;  because  one  must  have  a  pure  soul,  lay 
aside  disturbing  passion,  raise  one's  self  into  the  region  of 
faith,  to  see  clearly.  I  see  them,  but  often,  almost  always, 
a  malignant  spirit  darkens  my  sight.' 

'  Look  here,'  said  Ninetto  Costa,  the  smart,  rich  stock- 
broker, loudly.  '  I  have  done  more.  I  knew  that  a  young 
woman,  a  milliner  that  lives  in  Baglivo  Uries  Lane,  had  the 
name  of  giving  good  numbers.  She  can't  play  them,  as 
you  know ;  they  can't  do  so  without  losing  the  power.  But 
she  gives  them.  I  made  up  to  her,  pretended  to  fall  madly 


60  THE  LAND  OF  COCK  A  YNE 

in  love  with  her,  gave  her  presents.  I  see  her  morning  and 
evening.  I  have  even  got  to  promising  her  marriage.' 

'  Has  she  given  you  any  ?'  the  Marquis  di  Formosa 
asked  anxiously. 

'  Nothing  yet.  She  changes  the  subject,  when  I  mention 
it,  timidly ;  but  she  will  give  them — she  will.' 

How  Bianca  Maria  wished  that  the  Rosary  she  had  recited 
so  absent-mindedly  was  still  going  on,  so  as  not  to  hear  this 
mad  talk,  that  she  caught  every  word  of!  It  made  her 
brain  reel,  as  if  her  soul  was  drawn  into  a  whirlpool.  How 
she  would  have  liked  not  to  hear  the  ravings  of  their  dis- 
turbed brains  so  set  on  one  idea !  Now  the  Marquis  di 
Formosa  was  speaking  resoundingly. 

'  The  cobbler's  simple  science,  Father  Illuminato's  saint- 
liness,  our  friend  Colaneri's  dazzling  visions,  are  all  very 
well ;  but  what  is  the  result  ?  What  comes  of  it  ?  We 
who  play  our  collar-bones  every  week,  drawing  money  from 
stones,  all  of  us,  winning  in  a  hundred  years  or  so  a  wretched 
little  ambo,  or,  worse  still,  one  single  number.  Stronger 
hands  are  needed  !  a  higher  strength  is  needed  !  We  need 
miracles,  gentlemen.  We  must  induce  my  sister,  the  nun, 
to  give  lottery  numbers.  My  daughter  must  get  her  to  do 
it.  We  need  my  daughter  herself,  an  angel  of  virtue,  kind- 
ness, and  purity,  to  pray  to  the  Supreme  Being  for  numbers  !' 

A  deep  silence  followed  these  last  words.  The  entrance- 
door  bell  rang.  Bianca  Maria,  shaking  all  over,  dragged 
herself  to  her  door-curtain  and  saw  a  wretchedly- dressed 
man  pass,  mean-looking,  with  pale,  red-streaked  cheeks,  the 
beard  like  a  hospital  convalescent's.  It  was  a  painful, 
alarming  vision.  In  spite  of  the  extraordinary  man  going 
into  the  room,  the  silence  was  unbroken,  as  if  the  unknown 
had  brought  in  a  mysterious  tranquillity. 

Bianca  Maria  strained  her  ear  anxiously,  leaning  on  the 
doorpost.  Perhaps  the  Cabalists  had  gone  back  to  their 
little  table,  taking  the  new  arrival  with  them.  The  silence 
lasted  a  long  time.  Motionless,  almost  rigid,  she  clutched 
at  the  doorposts,  not  to  fall ;  what  she  had  heard  was  so  sad 
and  cruel  it  broke  her  heart.  She  was  seized  with  humilia- 
tion and  anguish,  as  if  she  could  feel  nothing  but  this  sorrow. 
She  suffered  every  way  in  her  natural  pride  and  outraged 
maidenly  reserve,  and  from  her  father  throwing  her  name 
about  in  a  mad  dispute.  She  felt  ashamed  for  him  and  for 
herself,  as  if  he  had  boxed  her  ears  in  public.  Her  anguish 


IN  THE  CAVALCANTIS'  HOUSE  61 

nearly  suffocated  her  ;  it  rose  to  her  brain,  and  seemed  to 
burn  her  in  its  hot  embrace.  How  long  she  stood,  how 
long  the  silence  went  on  in  the  drawing-room,  she  could  not 
tell ;  only,  through  her  distress,  she  heard  her  father's 
friends  pass  behind  her  curtain  and  go  out  cautiously,  like 
so  many  conspirators.  Then,  mechanically,  she  left  her 
room  to  look  for  him.  But  the  drawing-room  was  dark,  so 
was  the  study,  where  the  Marquis  di  Formosa  sometimes 
consulted  an  old  book  of  necromancy.  Bianca  Maria 
searched  anxiously  for  her  father.  In  the  end  a  light  guided 
her.  The  Marquis  di  Formosa  had  gone  into  the  little 
chapel,  filled  up  the  lamp  before  the  Virgin,  and  lighted  the 
lamp  before  the  Ecce  Homo,  put  out  by  his  orders,  also  the 
two  wax  candles  in  the  candelabra,  and  set  them  before 
Jesus  Christ.  Not  satisfied  with  that,  he  had  carried  the 
big  lamp  into  the  little  chapel.  In  that  illumination  he  had 
thrown  himself  down  despairingly  before  Christ,  trembling, 
shaking,  sobbing.  Praying  aloud,  he  said  to  the  Redeemer  : 

'  O  Lamb  of  God,  forgive  me !  I  am  ungrateful  and 
ignorant,  a  miserable  sinner.  Forgive  me,  forgive  !  Do  not 
make  me  suffer  for  my  sins.  Do  me  this  grace  for  the  sake 
of  my  languishing,  dying  daughter.  I  am  unworthy,  but 
bless  me  for  her  sake.  O  sorrowful  Virgin,  who  hast 
suffered  so  much,  understand  and  help  me  !  Send  a  vision 
to  Sister  Maria  degli  Angioli.  O  blessed  spirit,  Beatrice 
Cavalcanti,  my  saintly  wife,  if  I  caused  you  sorrow,  forgive 
me  !  Forgive  me  if  I  shortened  your  life !  Do  it  for  your 
daughter's  sake :  save  your  family.  Appear  to  your  daughter 
— she  is  innocent  and  good ;  tell  her  the  words  to  save  us, 
blessed  spirit !  blessed  spirit !' 

The  girl,  who  heard  it  all,  was  so  frightened  she  fled  with 
her  eyes  shut,  holding  her  head.  When  she  got  to  her 
room,  she  thought  she  heard  a  deep,  sad  sigh  behind  her, 
and  felt  a  light  hand  on  her  shoulder.  Mad  with  terror,  she 
could  not  cry  out ;  she  fell  her  whole  length  on  the  ground, 
and  lay  as  if  she  were  dead. 


CHAPTER  IV 

DR.   AMATI 

NOT  once  for  a  month  past  had  Dr.  Antonio  Amati  seen 
that  thoughtful,  delicate  girl's  face  between  the  yellowish  old 
curtains  in  the  balcony  opposite  his  study  window,  which 
looked  into  the  big  court  of  Rossi  Palace,  formerly  Caval- 
canti.  Two  years  had  passed  from  the  day  that  one  of  the 
youngest,  though  one  of  the  most  distinguished,  Naples 
doctors  had  come  to  take  up  his  abode  there  alone,  with  one 
manservant  and  a  housekeeper,  but  bringing  a  crowd  of  old 
and  new  patients  after  him,  filling  the  spacious,  but  rather 
dark,  stairs  with  a  going  and  coming  of  busy,  preoccupied 
people.  From  the  very  first  day  he  had  noticed  opposite  his 
study  window  in  passing  that  pure  oval,  the  faintly  pink, 
delicate  complexion,  those  proud,  soft  eyes,  that  touched  the 
heart  from  their  gentleness.  He  saw  all  that  at  once,  in 
spite  of  the  windows  opposite  being  dull  from  old  age  and 
her  appearing  for  a  short  time  only.  He  was  a  quick 
observer  ;  in  fact,  a  great  part  of  his  medical  skill  was  owing 
to  his  quick  glance,  his  lively,  true,  deep  intuition. 

'  A  heart  with  no  sun,'  he  said  to  himself,  turning  round 
to  put  his  heavy  scientific  volumes  into  his  carved  oak 
shelves.  Nor  was  he  surprised  when  the  Rossi  Palace 
doorkeeper,  humbly  consulting  him  under  the  portico,  as  he 
got  into  his  carriage  for  his  round  of  afternoon  visits,  about 
a  feverish  illness  that  had  inflamed  her  spleen,  told  him, 
amongst  a  flood  of  other  gossip,  that  that  angel  opposite  his 
balcony  was  Lady  Bianca  Maria  Cavalcanti,  a  lady  of  high 
birth,  but  reduced  in  circumstances,  poor  girl,  not  by  her 
own  fault.  ...  '  But  perhaps  she  will  become  a  nun,'  the 
woman  ended  up.  'A  heart  with  no  sun,'  Dr.  Antonio 
Amati  thought  again  as  he  went  away,  after  prescribing  for 
the  sickly,  talkative  doorkeeper. 

But  he  had  no  time  to  remark  or  think  of  aristocratic 
ladies  come  down  by  bad  luck,  or  their  parents'  sins,  to 


DR.  AM  ATI  63 

obscurity  and  wretchedness  ;  he  could  not  let  his  fancy 
linger  long  on  that  melancholy  life  alongside  of  his,  but  so 
different  from  it.  He  was  a  silent, energetic  man  of  action; 
a  Southerner  not  fond  of  words,  who  put  into  his  daily  work 
all  the  strength  other  Southerners  put  into  dreams,  talk,  and 
long  speeches,  accustoming  himself  to  this  self-government, 
calling  up  every  day  the  violence  of  his  fiery  temper  to 
conquer  it  by  strength  of  will,  and  make  use  of  it  for 
scientific  practical  work,  keeping  always  in  touch  with  life, 
books,  and  suffering  humanity,  which  at  thirty-five  had  made 
him  famous.  He  was  proud  of  his  great  reputation,  but  not 
conceited,  though  lucky  fortune  had  not  made  him  mean  or 
lowered  him.  No,  he  could  not  dream  about  Bianca  Maria's 
lily  face  ;  too  many  around  him  were  ill  of  typhus,  small- 
pox, consumption,  and  a  hundred  other  severe,  almost 
incurable,  illnesses  that  required  his  daily  help  and  energies. 
Too  many  people  called  to  him,  implored  him,  stretched  out 
their  hands  for  help,  besieging  his  waiting-room  and  the 
hospital  door,  watching  for  him  at  the  University  and  other 
sick  people's  doors  patiently  and  submissively,  as  if  waiting 
for  a  saviour.  Too  many  were  suffering,  sick  and  dying, 
for  him  to  dream  about  that  slight  apparition,  and  admire 
the  pale,  thoughtful  face  bending  under  the  weight  of  black 
tresses. 

Still,  through  that  life  of  useful  work  for  himself  and 
others,  through  the  seeming  hardness,  hurry,  even  scientific 
brutality  of  his  constant  activity,  which  was  made  up  for 
by  his  noble  daily  sacrifices,  that  silently  attractive  figure 
pleased  Dr.  Antonio  Amati's  fancy.  Gradually  it  took  its 
place  each  morning  among  the  things  he  admired  and  liked 
to  find  in  their  places  every  day  :  his  books,  old  leather 
note-books,  some  mementos  of  childhood  and  youth,  a  wax 
model  of  his  dead  sister's  little  hand,  an  old  photograph  of 
his  mother,  who  lived  in  Campobasso  province,  a  local 
accent  he  had  not  lost,  in  spite  of  living  eighteen  years  in 
Naples  and  his  travels  in  France  and  Germany. 

Bianca  Maria  came  into  this  harmonious  atmosphere, 
that  gently  satisfied  this  strong  man's  eyes  and  heart. 
Antonio  Amati  did  not  try  to  see  her  oftener,  nor  to  know 
and  speak  to  her ;  it  was  enough  to  see  her  in  the  early 
morning,  behind  her  balcony  windows,  look  down  vaguely 
into  the  dull,  damp  court,  then  disappear  as  slowly  as  she 
came — a  quiet,  solitary  figure,  not  sorrowful,  but  not  smiling. 


64  THE  LAND  OF  COCK  A  YNE 

Between  one  patient  going  and  another  coming,  Dr.  Amati 
got  up  from  his  desk,  and  went  as  far  as  the  balcony  ;  in 
one  or  other  of  these  little  walks,  that  seemed  to  serve  him 
as  a  pause,  a  rest,  a  distraction  between  one  bit  of  work 
finished  and  another  begun,  he  caught  sight  of  Bianca 
Maria's  pale,  thoughtful  face  ;  and  for  two  years  that  satis- 
fied him.  It  is  true  that  sometimes  in  these  two  years  he  had 
met  her  on  the  stairs,  or  in  the  Rossi  Palace  dark  entrance, 
with  her  father  or  Margherita  ;  he  took  off  his  hat,  and  she 
acknowledged  his  bow  unsmilingly.  She,  too,  knew  him 
well,  seeing  him  every  day  ;  but  she  looked  him  in  the  face 
frankly,  with  none  of  that  extreme  reserve,  half  smile,  half 
sham  indifference,  or  any  of  the  little  coquetries  of  common- 
place girls.  Frankly  and  innocently  she  looked  at  him  a 
minute,  returned  his  bow,  and  then  her  proud,  gentle  eyes 
took  their  vague  thoughtful  expression  again. 

They  did  not  make  daily  appointments  to  see  each  other — 
he  was  too  serious,  too  engrossed  in  duty  to  do  so,  and  she 
was  a  simple  creature,  living  too  solitary  an  inward  life  to 
think  of  it — only  they  saw  each  other  every  day,  and  got 
accustomed  to  it. 

'  But  perhaps  she  is  to  be  a  nun,'  the  doorkeeper  repeated 
sometimes.  She  had  got  over  her  illness,  and  employed 
herself  over  other  people's  ailments,  moral  and  physical. 

But  the  doctor  walked  on  without  replying,  thinking  of  the 
sad  chorus  of  lamentations  that  went  on  around  him,  from 
rich  and  poor,  for  real,  present,  imminent  sorrows,  almost 
hopeless  to  cure,  but  worthy  of  his  courage  and  talent  to 
attempt.  Still,  in  that  damp,  south-east  wind  this  autumn 
morning,  whilst  bad  coughs,  heart  complaints,  fevers  came  by 
turns  dolefully  in  his  list  of  cases,  this  sickly  atmosphere 
of  bad  weather  in  Naples  making  them  worse,  he  had,  as 
usual,  filled  up  his  leisure  by  going  to  the  balcony ;  and  not 
seeing  Bianca  Maria,  he  felt  annoyance  of  a  latent,  indefinite 
kind,  which  every  new  country  or  suburban  patient  made 
him  forget ;  but  it  came  back  when  the  patient  left.  The 
forenoon  passed  in  the  gloom  of  the  great  writing-table, 
covered  with  maroon  ;  of  these  colourless,  anxious  faces  held 
up  to  him ;  these  weak,  complaining  voices ;  lean  breasts,  or 
flabby  with  unhealthy  fat,  that  were  bared  for  him  to  find 
traces  of  consumption  or  atrophy,  with  wheezing,  funereal 
coughs.  Never  had  he  felt  the  disagreeables  of  his  pro- 
fession so  much  as  that  day.  Bianca  Maria  did  not  appear. 


DR.  AM  ATI  65 

'  She  is  ill,'  he  thought  momentarily.  Having  thought  of 
this,  he  felt  as  sure  as  if  someone  had  told  him  or  if  he  had 
seen  her  ill  himself.  She  was  sick.  He  at  once  thought  of 
helping  her,  with  that  instinct  to  save  life  all  great  doctors 
have.  He  thought  it  over  a  minute ;  but  his  mind  came 
back  to  the  realities  of  life  at  once.  It  was  folly  to  be  taken 
up  about  a  person  he  did  not  know,  and  who  probably  did 
not  care  to  have  him.  If  they  needed  his  skill,  they  would 
have  called  him.  For  all  that,  he  was  sure  Bianca  Maria 
was  ill. 

But  another  patient  came  into  the  room.  There  were 
two,  rather — a  youth  and  a  girl  of  the  lower  class.  He 
recognised  the  girl  at  once  from  her  hollow,  worn  face  and 
sad,  black-encircled  eyes,  the  lock  of  untidy  hair.  He  had 
cured  her  of  typhoid  at  San  Raffaele  hospital,  when  the 
epidemic  was  raging  in  Naples. 

'  Is  it  you,  Carmela  ?' 

4  Good-day  to  you,  sir,'  said  the  girl,  rushing  forward  to 
kiss  the  doctor's  hand,  which  he  quickly  drew  back. 

'  Are  you  ill  ?'  he  asked. 

'As  if  I  was  ill,'  she  said,  smiling,  in  a  faint,  melancholy 
way,  while  the  doctor  was  trying  to  recognise  the  young 
fellow's  face.  '  I  am  going  to  have  a  misfortune  that  is 
worse  than  an  illness,  sir.'  She  turned  to  her  companion 
as  she  spoke,  and  called  out :  '  Raffae  !'  Then  Amati  saw 
the  young  fellow  in  all  the  guappesca  style  of  bell-trousers, 
small  folded  cap,  silver  chain  with  a  bit  of  coral,  shiny 
squeaking  shoes,  and  the  half-scampish,  impudent  look  of  a 
lad  of  twenty  who  has  given  up  the  knife,  the  traditional 
sfarziglia  of  his  ancestors  in  the  Camorra,  for  the  modern 
revolver.  '  This  is  my  lover,  sir,'  she  said,  humbly  and 
proudly,  whilst  Raffaele  looked  straight  before  him,  as  if  it 
was  not  his  business.  She  gave  the  youth  so  intense  a 
look,  so  full  of  tenderness  and  passion,  that  the  doctor 
had  to  restrain  an  impatient  shrug. 

'  Is  he  ill  ?'  he  asked. 

'  No,  sir ;  he  is  very  well,  thank  God  !  But  he  has — that 
is  to  say,  we  have — another  misfortune  coming  on  us  ;  or, 
indeed,  it  is  my  misfortune,  as  I  must  lose  him.  They  want 
to  take  him  for  the  levy,'  said  she,  in  a  trembling  voice,  her 
eyes  filling  with  tears. 

'  That  is  natural  enough,'  answered  the  doctor,  smiling. 

'  How  can  you  say  so,  sir  ?  It  is  infamous  of  the  Govern- 

5 


66  THE  LAND  OF  COCKA  YNE 

ment  to  take  a  fine  lad  that  ought  to  marry.     If  you  won't 
help  me,  sir,  what  will  I  do  ?' 

'  And  what  can  /  do  ?' 

Raffaele,  in  the  meanwhile,  stood  with  one  hand  at  his 
side,  hanging  his  hat  between  two  fingers  ;  sometimes  he 
looked  Carmela  up  and  down  absent-mindedly  and  haughtily, 
as  if  it  was  out  of  mere  good-nature  he  allowed  her  to  look 
after  his  affairs ;  then  he  cast  an  oblique  but  dignified 
glance  on  the  doctor. 

'  You  are  so  kind,  sir,'  Carmela  murmured.  '  I  want  you 
to  give  Raffaele  a  medicine  to  make  him  ill,  and  get  him 
scratched  off  the  list.' 

'  It  is  impossible,  my  dear  girl.' 

'  Why  so,  sir  ?' 

'  Because  there  are  no  such  miraculous  medicines.' 

'  Oh,  sir,  you  mean  you  don't  wish  to  do  me  this  kindness. 
Think  if  they  take  him  for  three  years ! — three  years ! 
What  could  I  do  without  him  for  three  years  ?  And,  then, 
he  won't  go,  sir  !  If  you  knew  what  he  says ' 

'  I  told  her,'  Raffaele  interrupted  emphatically,  pulling 
down  his  waistcoat,  a  common  gttappa  trick,  '  that  if  they 
take  me  by  force,  we  will  hold  a  little  shooting  ;  someone 
will  be  wounded,  they  take  me  to  prison,  and  what  happens  ? 
A  year's  imprisonment  at  most.  I  must  go  to  San  Fran- 
cesco some  day,  at  any  rate.' 

'  Don't  speak  that  way — don't  say  that !'  she  called  out  in 
admiring  terror.  '  Beg  the  professor  to  give  you  the  medicine.' 

*  Are  you  to  be  married  soon  ?'  asked  the  doctor,  who  no 
longer  wondered  at  anything,  from  knowing  the  people  so 
well. 

'Very  soon,'  Carmela  answered  by  herself,  while  Raffaele 
looked  before  him. 

'  When  are  you  to  be  ?' 

«  When  we  get  the  terno,'  she  retorted,  quietly  and  with 
certainty. 

'  Then,  not  for  some  time  yet,'  the  doctor  replied,  laughing. 

'  No,  no,  sir ;  Don  Pasqualino  De  Feo,  the  medium,  has 
promised  me  a  safe  number.  We  will  be  married  very  soon. 
But  you  must  get  Raffaele  off.' 

'  There  is  no  need  of  my  services.  Raffaele  will  be  re- 
jected, because  he  has  a  narrow  chest,'  concluded  the 
doctor,  after  looking  carefully  at  the  dandy. 

'  Do  you  say  so,  really  ?' 


DR.  AM  ATI  67 

'  Really  it  is  so.' 

'  God  bless  you,  sir !  if  I  had  to  have  this  sorrow  too,  I 
would  die.  So  many  sorrows — so  many,'  she  said  in  a  low 
tone,  pulling  up  her  shabby  shawl  on  her  shoulders  ;  '  I  am 
the  mother  of  sorrows,'  she  added,  with  a  sad  smile. 

'  Good-day,  sir,'  said  Raffaele.  '  When  you  come  to 
Mercato  or  Pendino  district,  ask  for  Raffaele — I  am  called 
Farfariello — and  let  me  serve  you  in  any  way  I  can.' 

'  Thank  you — thank  you,'  replied  the  doctor,  sending  them 
off. 

The  two  again  repeated  their  farewells  on  their  way  out — 
she  with  a  smile  on  her  suffering  face,  he  with  the  look  of  a 
man  that  despises  women.  Other  patients  came  in  requiring 
his  medical  skill  up  to  twelve  o'clock,  when  the  time  for  re- 
ceiving visits  was  over.  Bianca  Maria  had  not  appeared. 
She  was  ill,  therefore. 

He  took  breakfast  very  hurriedly,  and  ordered  the  coach- 
man to  bring  round  the  carriage  to  go  to  the  hospital  at  one 
o'clock.  The  day  was  getting  more  and  more  unpleasant, 
from  the  scirocco's  damp,  ill-smelling  breath.  He  went 
out  quickly,  as  he  was  rather  late,  and  on  the  stairs,  half 
in  shadow,  he  met  Bianca  Maria  going  down  also,  with 
Margherita,  her  maid. 

'  Then,  she  is  not  ill,'  thought  the  doctor. 

But  with  the  sharp  eyes  of  an  observing  man,  who  finds 
out  the  truth  from  the  slightest  symptoms,  he  saw  the  girl 
was  walking  undecidedly ;  her  face,  as  she  looked  up  to 
bow,  was  intensely  pale,  so  that  again  his  medical  instinct 
was  to  help  her.  He  was  just  going  to  speak,  to  ask  her 
brusquely  where  the  pain  was,  but  her  proud,  gentle  eyes 
were  cast  down  again  absent-mindedly ;  her  mouth  had  that 
severe  silent  look  that  imposes  silence  on  others.  She  dis- 
appeared without  his  saying  anything.  Dr.  Amati  shrugged 
his  shoulders  as  he  got  into  the  carriage,  and  buried  himself 
in  a  medical  journal,  as  he  did  every  day,  to  fill  up  even  the 
short  drive  usefully.  The  carriage  rolled  along  silently  over 
the  thin  layer  of  mud  ;  the  damp  obscured  the  windows,  and 
the  doctor  felt  the  scirocco  in  himself  and  in  the  air.  Even 
the  hospital  could  not  soothe  the  doctor's  discomfort,  though 
to  take  his  thoughts  off  it  he  went  deeper  into  practical 
medical  work  and  scientific  explanations  to  the  pupils  than 
usual.  He  went  backwards  and  forwards  from  one  bed  to 
another,  followed  by  a  crowd  of  youths,  taller  than  any  of 

5—2 


68  THE  LAND  OF  COCKAYNE 

them,  with  an  obstinate  man's  short  forehead,  marked  by 
two  perpendicular  lines,  from  a  constant  frown,  showing  a 
strong  will  and  absorption  in  his  work  ;  his  thick  brush  of 
black  hair  was  roughly  set  on  his  forehead,  with  some  white 
tufts  showing  already.  So  great  was  his  activity  of  thought, 
words,  and  action,  one  expected  to  see  the  smoke  of  a  volcano 
coming  out.  His  orders  to  the  assistants  and  his  class,  even 
to  the  nuns,  were  given  harshly  ;  they  all  obeyed  quickly 
and  silently,  feeling  respect  for  the  iron  will,  in  spite  of  his 
rough  commands,  mingled  with  admiration  for  the  man  who 
was  looked  on  as  a  saviour.  Even  the  room  he  had  charge 
of  looked  more  melancholy  and  wretched  that  day  than 
ever ;  the  dulness  of  the  air  saddened  the  invalids,  the 
heavy,  evil-smelling  damp  made  them  feel  their  pains  more. 
A  whispered  lament,  like  a  long,  laboured  breath,  was  heard 
from  one  end  of  the  room  to  the  other,  and  the  sick  folks' 
pale  faces  got  yellow  in  that  ghastly  light ;  their  emaciated 
hands  on  the  coverlets  looked  like  wax. 

In  spite  of  trying  to  stun  himself  with  work  and  words, 
Dr.  Amati  felt  the  disagreeables  of  his  profession  more  than 
ever.  Through  that  long,  narrow  room,  full  of  beds  in  a 
row,  and  yellow,  suffering  faces,  and  the  constant  smell  of 
phenic  acid  ;  through  the  scirocco  mist  and  damp,  that 
made  even  the  nuns'  pink  cheeks  bloodless-looking,  he  had 
a  dream,  a  passing  vision  of  a  sunny,  green,  warm,  clear, 
sweet-smelling  country  place,  and  his  heart  ached  for  this 
idyll,  come  and  gone  in  a  moment. 

'  Good-bye,  gentlemen,'  Amati  said  brusquely  to  the 
students,  dismissing  them. 

They  knew  that  when  he  so  greeted  them  he  wished  to 
be  left  alone ;  they  knew,  they  understood,  the  Professor 
was  in  a  bad  humour ;  they  let  him  go.  One  of  the 
ambulance  men  brought  him  two  or  three  letters  that 
came  while  he  was  going  his  rounds  ;  they  were  summonses, 
urgent  letters  from  sick  people  longing  for  him,  from  a 
father  who  had  lost  his  head  over  a  son's  illness,  from 
despairing  women.  He  shook  his  head  as  he  read  them, 
as  if  he  had  lost  confidence — as  if  all  humanity  sorrowing 
discouraged  him.  He  went — yes,  he  went ;  but  he  felt  very 
tired,  which  must  have  come  from  his  mind,  for  he  had 
worked  much  less  than  usual.  He  was  going  along  absent- 
mindedly,  when  a  shadow  rose  before  him  on  the  hospital 
stairs.  It  was  a  poor  woman,  of  no  particular  age,  with 


DR.  AM  ATI  69 

sparse  grayish  hair,  black  teeth,  prominent  cheek-bones, 
her  clothes  torn  and  dirty,  whilst  the  slumbering  babe  she 
carried  was  clean,  though  meanly  clad. 

'  Sir — please,  sir  !'  she  called  out  in  a  crying  voice,  seeing 
the  doctor  was  going  on  without  troubling  himself  about  her. 

'  What  do  you  want  ?  Who  are  you  ?'  the  doctor  asked 
roughly,  without  looking  at  her. 

'I  am  Annarella,  Carmela's  sister — you  saved  her  life,' 
said  Gaetano  the  glove-cutter's  wretched  wife. 

'Your  sister  in  the  morning,  and  now  you!'  the  doctor 
impatiently  exclaimed. 

'  Not  for  me,  sir — not  for  me,'  the  gambler's  wife  said  in  a 
low  tone.  '  I  can  die.  I  don't  signify.  I  do  so  little  in  the 
world  I  can't  even  find  bread  for  my  children.' 

'  Get  out  of  the  way — get  out  of  the  way.' 

'  It  is  for  this  little  creature,  for  my  sick  son,  sir  ;'  and  she 
bent  to  kiss  the  little  slumberer's  forehead.  '  I  don't  know 
what  is  the  matter,  but  he  falls  off  every  day,  and  I  don't 
know  what  to  give  him.  Cure  him  for  me,  sir.' 

The  doctor  leant  over  the  little  invalid,  with  its  pretty, 
delicate,  pallid  face,  purple  eyelids,  hardly  perceptible 
breathing,  and  lips  slightly  apart ;  he  touched  its  forehead 
and  hands,  then  looked  at  the  mother. 

'  You  give  it  milk  ?'  he  asked  shortly. 

'  Yes,  sir,'  said  she,  with  a  slight  smile  of  motherly  content. 

'  How  many  months  old  is  he  ?' 

'  Eighteen  months.' 

'  And  you  still  suckle  him  ?  You  are  all  the  same,  you 
Naples  women.  Wean  him  at  once.' 

'  Oh,  sir  !'  she  exclaimed,  quite  alarmed. 

'  Wean  him,'  he  repeated. 

'What  am  I  to  give  him  ?'  she  said,  almost  sobbing.  '  I 
often  want  bread  for  myself  and  the  other  two,  but  never 
milk.  Must  this  poor  little  soul  die  of  hunger  too  ?' 

'Does  your  husband  not  work?'  asked  the  doctor 
ponderingly. 

'  Yes,  sir,  he  does  work,'  she  said,  shaking  her  head. 

*  Does  he  keep  another  woman  ?' 

'  No,  sir.' 

'  What  does  he  do,  then  ?' 

'  He  plays  at  the  lottery.' 

'  I  understand.  Wean  the  child.  He  has  fever.  Your 
milk  poisons  him.' 


70  THE  LAND  OF  COCKA  YNE 

After  gazing  at  the  doctor  and  her  child,  she  just  said 
'  Jesus '  in  a  whisper,  and  a  sob  burst  out  from  her  motherly 
breast. 

Amati  wrote  out  a  prescription  in  pencil  on  a  leaf  of  his 
pocket-book.  He  went  down  the  stairs,  followed  by  Anna- 
rella,  whose  tears  fell  over  the  child's  face,  her  dull  sobs 
following  him  in  lamentation. 

4  This  is  the  prescription ;  here  are  five  francs  to  get  it 
with,'  said  the  doctor,  motioning  to  her  not  to  thank  him. 

She  looked  at  him  with  stupefied  eyes  while  he  crossed 
the  big  cold  hospital  court  to  his  carriage ;  she  began  to 
cry  again  when  she  was  alone ;  gazing  on  the  baby,  the 
prescription  in  her  hand  shook — it  was  so  bitter  for  her  to 
think  of  having  poisoned  her  son  with  her  milk. 

'  It  must  be  cholera,'  she  kept  saying  to  herself,  for 
among  Naples  common  folk  stomach  disorders  are  often 
called  cholera. 

Dr.  Amati  shook  his  head  again  energetically,  as  if  he 
had  lost  confidence  altogether  in  the  saving  of  humanity. 
As  he  was  opening  the  carriage  door  to  get  in,  a  woman 
who  had  been  chattering  with  the  hospital  porter  came  up 
to  speak  to  him.  It  was  a  woman  in  black,  with  a  nun's 
shawl,  and  black  silk  kerchief  on  her  head,  tied  under  the 
chin.  She  had  coal-black  eyes  in  a  pale  face — eyes  used  to 
the  shade  and  silence.  She  spoke  very  low. 

'  Sir,  would  you  come  with  me  to  do  an  urgent  kind- 
ness?' 

'  I  am  busy,'  the  doctor  grumbled,  getting  into  his 
carriage. 

'  The  person  is  very,  very  ill.' 

'  All  the  people  I  have  to  see  are  ill.' 

'  She  is  near  here,  sir,  in  the  Sacramentiste  convent.  I 
was  sent  to  the  hospital  to  find  a  doctor.  I  can't  go  back 
without  one  .  .  .  she  is  so  very  ill.  .  .  .' 

'  Dr.  Caramanna  is  still  up  there — ask  for  him,'  Amati 
retorted.  '  Is  it  a  nun  that  is  ill  ?'  he  then  added. 

'  The  Sacramentistes  are  cloistered ;  they  can't  call  men 
into  the  convent,'  said  the  servant,  pursing  her  lips.  '  It  is 
someone  who  got  ill  in  the  convent  parlour,  not  belonging 
to  the  convent.  .  .  .' 

'  I  will  come,'  Amati  said  quickly. 

He  pushed  the  servant  into  the  carriage,  got  in  and  shut 
the  door.  The  carriage  rolled  along  the  Anticaglia  road, 


DR.  AM  ATI  71 

which  is  so  dark,  muddy,  and  wretched  from  old  age ;  and 
they  did  not  say  a  word  to  each  other  in  the  short  drive. 
The  carriage  stopped  before  the  convent  gate ;  instead  of 
ringing  the  bell,  the  servant  opened  the  door  with  a  key. 
The  doctor  and  she  first  crossed  an  icy  court  overlooked 
by  a  number  of  windows  with  green  jalousies,  then  a 
corridor  with  pillars  along  the  court ;  complete  solitude  and 
silence  was  everywhere.  They  went  into  a  vast  room  on 
the  ground-floor.  Along  the  whitewashed  walls  were  straw 
chairs,  nothing  else ;  at  the  end  a  big  table,  with  a  seat  for 
the  porter  lay  Sister.  A  crucifix  was  nailed  on  one  wall. 
Along  the  other  were  two  narrow  gratings  with  a  wheel  in 
the  middle,  to  speak  through  and  pass  things  to  the  nuns. 
Near  this  wall,  on  three  chairs,  a  woman's  form  was 
stretched  out ;  another  woman  was  kneeling  and  bending 
over  her  face.  Before  the  doctor  got  as  far  as  the  woman 
lying  down,  the  servant  went  up  to  the  grating  and  spoke : 
'  Praise  to  the  Holy  Sacrament ' 

'  Now  and  for  ever,'  a  very  feeble  voice  answered  from 
inside,  as  if  it  came  out  of  a  deep  cave. 

'  Is  the  doctor  here  ?' 

'Yes,  Sister  Maria.' 

'  That  is  well ;'  and  a  long,  feverish  sigh  was  heard. 

In  the  meantime  Dr.  Amati  had  gone  up  to  the  fainting 
girl.  Margherita  was  bathing  her  forehead  with  a  hand- 
kerchief steeped  in  vinegar,  and  whispering  :  '  My  darling  ! 
my  darling !'  • 

The  doctor  put  his  hat  on  the  ground,  and  knelt  down 
too,  to  examine  the  fainting  girl.  He  felt  her  pulse,  and 
gently  raised  one  eyelid  ;  the  eye  was  glassy. 

'  How  long  has  she  been  like  this  ?'  he  asked  in  a  whisper, 
rubbing  her  icy  hands. 

'  Half  an  hour,1  the  old  woman  replied. 

1  What  have  you  done  for  her  ?' 

'Nothing  but  use  the  vinegar.  They  gave  it  to  me 
through  the  wheel ;  they  have  nothing  else  ;  it  is  a  convent 
under  strict  rules.' 

'  Does  she  often  faint  ?' 

'  Last  night  .  .  .  she  had  another  swoon.  I  found  her  on 
the  ground  in  her  room.  I  called  my  master.' 

'  Did  she  recover  of  herself  .  .  .  last  night  ?' 

« Yes.' 

'  Had  she  got  a  fright  ?' 


72  THE  LAND  OF  COCKA  YNE 

'  I  don't  know  ...  I  don't  think  so,'  she  said  in  a 
hesitating  way. 

They  were  speaking  in  a  whisper,  whilst  the  servant 
stood  right  at  the  grating,  as  if  mounting  guard. 

'  Is  she  better  ?'  the  feeble  voice  inside  asked. 

'  Just  the  same,'  replied  the  servant  in  a  monotonous  voice. 

'  Oh  God !'  the  voice  called  out  in  anguish. 

Meanwhile  the  doctor  bent  down  to  hear  the  breathing 
better.  He  seemed  thoughtful  and  preoccupied.  Margherita 
looked  at  him  with  despairing  eyes. 

'  Did  she  get  a  fright,  half  an  hour  ago,  in  here  ?'  he  began 
again  to  ask,  whilst  he  carefully  raised  Bianca's  head  and 
placed  it  against  his  breast. 

'  No  !  .  .  .  certainly  not !'  Margherita  whispered.  '  I 
was  in  church.  I  did  not  hear  what  was  said ;  they  called 
to  me.' 

'  Who  is  that  nun  ?'  he  asked,  pointing  to  the  grating. 

'  It  is  Sister  Maria  degli  Angioli — the  aunt.' 

Then  he  got  up  and  went  to  the  grating.  The  serving 
Sister  pursed  up  her  lips  to  remind  him  of  the  cloistral 
rule,  almost  as  if  she  wanted  to  prevent  any  conversation 
between  him  and  the  nun. 

'  Sister  Maria '  he  said  very  gently. 

'  Now  and  for  ever,1  the  feeble  voice  said  hurriedly,  hear- 
ing a  man's  voice. 

'  Has  your  niece  had  a  fright  ?' 

Silence  on  the  other  side. 

'  Did  she  tell  you  of  anything  disagreeable  that  had 
happened  to  her  ?' 

'  Yes,  yes  !'  the  voice  breathed  out,  trembling. 

'  Can  you  tell  me  what  it  was  about  ?' 

'  No,  no !'  she  went  on  quickly,  still  trembling.  '  Some- 
thing very  sad  ...  I  can't  tell  you.' 

'  Very  well — thank  you,'  he  whispered,  getting  up  again. 

'  How  is  she  ?  Are  you  giving  her  anything  ?'  the  Sister's 
voice  asked. 

'  We  are  going  to  take  her  to  the  house.  Nothing  can  be 
done  here.' 

'  We  are  poor  nuns,'  the  Sister  murmured.  '  How  will 
you  carry  her  ?' 

'  In  the  carriage,'  he  said  shortly.  Then,  going  up  to 
Margherita,  he  went  on  in  a  low,  forcible  voice  :  '  I  am 
coming  with  my  coachman  just  now.  She  can't  stay  here  ; 


DR.  AM  ATI  73 

I  can't  do  anything  for  her  here.  We  will  carry  her  out 
to  the  carriage  and  go  home.' 

'  In  this  state  ?'  she  asked  undecidedly. 

'  Do  you  want  her  to  die  here  ?'  he  interrupted  brusquely. 

'  Please  forgive  me,  sir.' 

He  had  already  gone  out,  without  his  hat  or  overcoat, 
across  the  passage  and  icy  court.  After  a  minute  he  came 
back  with  the  coachman,  who  had  evidently  got  his  orders. 

The  doctor  gently  raised  the  fainting  girl's  body  from 
under  the  arms,  resting  her  head  on  his  breast,  while  the 
coachman  raised  her  feet.  She  was  almost  rigid  and  very 
heavy.  The  coachman  had  a  frightened  look ;  perhaps  he 
thought  he  was  carrying  out  a  dead  woman,  all  in  black, 
through  that  bare  parlour,  deserted  corridor,  and  chilly 
court ;  and  although  the  sight  of  physical  suffering  was  not 
new  to  him,  being  in  a  successful  doctor's  service,  the  idea 
of  carrying  a  young  woman's  cold  body,  a  corpse  perhaps, 
gave  him  such  a  shudder  he  turned  away  his  head.  Old 
Margherita,  coming  behind,  looked  yellower,  more  like 
wrinkled  parchment  than  ever,  in  the  bright  court.  The 
procession  of  the  anxious  doctor,  the  frightened  man,  the 
rigid  figure  in  black,  and  the  old  servant  sadly  bent  by  a 
strange  new  anguish,  moved  silently  across  the  silent,  tomb- 
like  cloister,  like  a  funeral.  Gently,  with  the  care  needed 
not  to  waken  a  sleeping  baby,  the  two  men  placed  the  poor 
lifeless  creature  in  the  carriage,  her  head  against  the 
cushions  and  her  feet  on  the  opposite  seat.  She  had  not 
given  a  sign  of  life  whilst  she  was  being  carried ;  the  two 
lines  deepened  between  Dr.  Amati's  eyebrows,  lines  showing 
a  strong  will  and  deep  thought,  but  which  gave  him  an 
absent-minded  look.  Margherita  still  gently  tried  to  re- 
arrange the  girl's  loosened  tresses  that  had  fallen  down,  but 
she  did  not  manage  it,  her  lean  hands  trembled  so ;  she, 
too,  had  got  into  the  broad  landau ;  she  gathered  up  her 
mistress's  hair  caressingly,  and  the  doctor  heard  her  mutter, 
'  My  darling  !  my  darling  !' 

He  had  lowered  the  blue  blinds  against  indiscreet  eyes ; 
the  carriage  went  at  a  foot-pace ;  and  in  that  bluish,  misty 
shade  the  slow  pace  kept  up  the  idea  of  a  funeral  still  more. 
However,  the  carriage  stopped  at  one  point ;  after  a  little 
the  coachman  opened  the  door,  and  handed  in  to  the  doctor 
a  hermetically  sealed  phial,  which  he  held  to  the  uncon- 
scious girl's  nose.  A  sharp  smell  of  ether  at  once  spread 


74  THE  LAND  OF  COCKAYNE 

through  the  carriage,  which  was  still  going  very  slowly. 
Bianca  Maria  never  moved ;  after  a  little  there  was  one 
sign  of  feeling  :  her  closed  eyelids  got  red,  big  tears  burst 
out  between  the  lashes  and  ran  down  her  cheeks.  The 
doctor  did  not  take  his  eyes  off  her  for  a  minute,  keeping 
her  hand  in  his.  She  went  on  weeping,  still  unconscious, 
without  giving  another  sign  of  life  :  as  if  she  still  felt  sorrow 
through  her  unconsciousness,  as  if  through  her  loss  of 
memory  one  bitter  recollection  still  remained — only  one. 
She  did  not  recover  consciousness. 

When  they  got  to  the  Rossi  Palace  courtyard,  hardly  was 
the  door  opened  when  a  murmuring  noise  broke  out,  gradu- 
ally growing  stronger,  impossible  to  restrain.  Beside  the 
carriage  door  the  porter's  wife  called  out  and  screamed  as  if 
the  girl  was  dead.  All  the  windows  looking  into  the  court- 
yard, all  the  landing-place  doors,  had  opened  to  see  the 
poor,  fainting,  pale  creature  in  black,  with  hair  hanging 
down,  taken  out  of  the  carriage.  The  doctor  vainly  tried 
to  insist  on  silence,  but  the  cry  of  surprise  and  compassion 
grew  louder,  rising  in  the  heavy  air. 

On  the  first-floor  landing-place  Gelsomina,  Agnesina 
Fragala's  nurse,  came  out,  holding  the  pretty,  healthy 
infant  in  her  arms;  the  happy  mother,  Luisella  Fragala, 
came  behind  her,  dressed  to  go  out,  with  her  bonnet  on. 
But  she  lingered,  leaning  on  the  iron  railing,  smiling  vaguely 
at  her  baby,  and  looking  pityingly  on  the  strange  escort. 
She  had  felt  rather  tired  and  preoccupied  for  some  time  past, 
for  she  had  been  going  every  day  to  the  Santo  Spirito  shop, 
from  an  instinct,  a  presentiment,  that  was  stronger  than  her 
pride,  tying  up  the  parcels  of  sweets  and  cakes  with  her 
ring-covered,  white  hands. 

'Poor  thing!  poor  thing!'  Luisella  Fragala  muttered; 
her  compassion  had  a  deeper,  acuter  feeling  in  it  than  the 
other  people's  had. 

Raising  the  heavy  yellow  brocade  curtains  behind  her 
double  windows  on  the  first-floor,  Signora  Parascandolo's 
bloodless  face  appeared — the  rich  usurer's  wife  who  had  lost 
all  her  children. 

She  seldom  went  out ;  she  stayed  shut  up  in  her  gorgeous 
apartment,  full  of  rich  furniture  now  quite  useless  and 
dreary,  as  she  never  received  anyone  since  her  sons  died  ; 
only  she  looked  out  of  the  window  now  and  then  in  a  silly 
kind  of  way  that  had  grown  on  her.  On  seeing  Bianca 


DR.  AMATI  75 

Maria  carried  up  in  that  way,  the  poor  woman,  who  took  an 
interest  in  nothing  usually,  opened  the  window,  and  her  voice 
was  added  to  the  rising  tumult,  crying  in  prayer  and  sup- 
plication, '  Jesus,  Jesus,  help  us!'  All  Domenico  Mayer's 
misanthropic  family  came  out  on  the  third-floor  landing, 
leaving  their  three-roomed  little  flat  that  looked  on  to  the 
Rossi  Theatre.  First  came  the  father's  long,  peevish  face, 
and,  having  just  left  some  copying  work  brought  home  from 
the  Finance  Office,  he  had  sleeves  on  to  save  his  coat ;  then 
Donna  Christina,  the  mother,  who  had  got  rid  of  the  tooth- 
ache but  had  a  stiff  neck  instead  ;  next  Amalia,  with  her 
staring  eyes,  thick  nose  and  lips,  and  sulky  look  of  a  girl 
who  has  not  yet  got  a  husband ;  and  Fofo,  still  afflicted  by 
the  hunger  which  his  relations  said  was  a  mysterious  illness. 
The  whole  family  nearly  threw  themselves  over  the  railings 
out  of  curiosity,  and  shrieked  out  in  a  chorus  :  '  Poor  girl ! 
poor  girl !'  A  woman  in  a  muslin  cap  and  a  man  in  a  blue 
sweeping-apron  were  at  the  window — even  the  doctor's 
housekeeper  ;  nor  did  they  stop  gazing  when  their  master 
came  up,  so  overpowering  was  the  excitement  in  all  the 
Rossi  Palace. 

That  carrying  up  the  stair,  amid  the  noisy  compassion  of 
all  these  different  people,  the  frightened,  pitying  shrieks, 
that  had  a  false  ring  about  them,  seemed  endless  to 
Dr.  Amati ;  as  for  old  Margherita,  she  shook  with  annoy- 
ance and  shame,  as  if  that  noise  and  publicity  were  insulting 
to  her  mistress. 

When  the  door  was  shut  behind  them,  she  asked  Giovanni 
in  a  fright :  '  Is  milord  not  in  ?  Milady  is  ill.' 

'  No,'  he  said,  making  way  for  the  bearers. 

Margherita  shook  her  head  despairingly.  She  went  with 
the  doctor  and  his  man  into  Bianca  Maria's  room  ;  the  girl 
was  laid  on  the  bed.  The  man-servant  went  away.  The 
doctor  again  tried  to  bring  her  back  with  ether — no  result. 
He  bit  his  lip  ;  he  said  twice  or  thrice,  '  It  is  impossible  !' 
Once  again  he  raised  the  violet  eyelids,  looking  at  her  eyes. 
She  was  alive,  but  she  did  not  recover  consciousness. 

'  Where  is  her  father  ?'  he  asked,  without  turning  round. 

'  I  don't  know,'  the  old  woman  muttered. 

'  There  will  be  some  place  he  goes  every  day ;  send  for  him.' 

'  I  will  send,  as  you  order  me  to,'  she  said,  still  hesitating ; 
and  she  went  out. 

He  sat  down  by  the  bedside,  and  laid  down  the  ether 


76  THE  LAND  OF  COCKA  YNE 

bottle,  convinced  now  it  was  useless.  That  bare,  cold  little 
room,  with  a  look  of  childish  purity,  had  calmed  somewhat 
the  scientist's  dull  anger  at  not  being  able  to  cure  nor  find 
out  the  reason  of  the  illness.  He  had  seen,  a  hundred  times, 
long,  queer  fainting  fits  ;  but  they  were  from  nervous  ill- 
nesses, from  abnormal  temperaments,  out  of  order  from  the 
beginning,  and  ordinary  methods  had  overcome  them.  The 
colourless  young  girl  seemed  to  be  sleeping  heavily,  and  she 
might  remain  so  for  many  hours,  wrapped  up  in  the  dark 
regions  of  unconsciousness.  He  armed  himself  with  patience, 
turning  over  in  his  mind  medical  books  that  spoke  of  such 
fainting  fits.  Twice  or  thrice  Margherita  had  come  back  into 
the  room,  questioning  him  with  an  agonized  look  ;  he  shook 
his  head,  '  No.'  Then  he  asked  her  for  brandy.  She  stood 
hesitating  ;  there  was  none  in  the  house.  Amati  told  her  to 
go  and  ask  for  it  in  his  flat  next  door.  With  a  teaspoon,  a 
wretched  one  that  had  lost  its  plating,  he  opened  the  girl's 
lips,  'and  poured  the  strong  liquor  through  her  closed  teeth, 
with  no  result.  Again,  he  asked  Margherita,  who  was 
fidgeting  about,  to  heat  flannel  cloths  ;  seeing  her  still  em- 
barrassed, he  told  her  to  go  to  his  house,  and  ask  the  house- 
keeper for  some. 

Whilst  she  was  away,  Giovanni  came  back  out  of  breath  ; 
he  panted  as  he  spoke. 

'  I  have  not  found  the  Marquis  anywhere,  not  at  Don 
Crescenzio's  lottery  stand,  nor  at  the  Santo  Spirito  assembly, 
nor  in  Don  Pasqualino  the  medium's  house,  where  they 
meet  every  day.' 

'  Who  meet  ?'  asked  the  doctor  distractedly,  hardly  listen- 
ing to  what  he  said. 

'  The  Marquis's  friends.  .  .  .  But  I  left  word  wherever  he 
is  to  come  back  to  the  house,  because  her  ladyship  is  ill.' 

'  Very  good  ;  send  out  this  prescription,'  said  the  doctor, 
who  as  usual  wrote  it  with  a  pencil  on  a  leaf  from  his 
pocket-book. 

The  old  servant's  pale  face  looked  disturbed.  The  doctor, 
always  taken  up  about  his  patient,  did  not  notice  him. 

'  Go,  and  get  it,'  he  said,  feeling  Giovanni  was  still  there. 

*  It  is  because  .  .  .'  the  poor  man  stammered  out. 

Then  the  doctor,  just  as  he  had  done  for  Annarella,  the 
glove-cutter's  wretched  wife,  pulled  ten  francs  out  of  his 
purse  and  gave  them  to  him. 

« .  .  .  the  master  not  being  in  and  not  being  able  to  tell 


DR.  AM  ATI  77 

the  mistress,'  Giovanni  muttered,  wishing  to  account  for  the 
want  of  money. 

'Very  good — all  right,'  said  the  doctor,  turning  to  his 
patient. 

But  a  loud  ring  at  the  bell  sounded  all  through  the  flat. 
A  resounding  step  was  heard,  and  the  Marquis  di  Formosa 
came  in.  He  seemed  only  to  see  his  daughter  stretched 
out  on  the  bed.  He  began  kissing  her  hand  and  forehead, 
speaking  loudly  in  great  anguish. 

'  My  daughter,  my  daughter,  what  is  the  matter  with 
you  ?  Answer  your  father.  Bianca,  Bianca,  answer ! 
Where  have  you  the  pain  ?  how  did  it  come  ?  My  darling, 
my  heart's  blood,  my  crown,  answer  me !  It  is  your  father 
calling  you.  Listen,  listen,  tell  me  what  it  is  !  I  will  cure 
you,  dear,  dear  daughter !' 

And  he  went  on  exclaiming,  crying  out,  sobbing,  pale 
and  red  in  the  face,  by  turns,  running  his  fingers  through 
his  white  hair,  his  still  graceful,  strong  figure  bent,  while 
the  doctor  looked  at  him  keenly.  In  a  silent  interval  the 
Marquis  noticed  Amati's  presence,  and  recognised  him  as 
his  celebrated  neighbour. 

'  Oh,  doctor,'  he  called  out,  '  give  her  something — this 
daughter  is  all  I  have  !' 

'  I  am  trying  what  I  can,'  the  doctor  said  slowly,  in  a  low 
voice,  as  if  he  was  chafing  against  the  powerlessness  of  his 
science.  '  But  it  is  an  obstinate  faint.' 

'  Has  she  had  it  long  ?' 

'  About  two  hours.  It  came  on  in  the  Sacramentiste 
parlour.' 

'  Ah  !'  said  the  father,  getting  pale. 

The  doctor  looked  at  him.  They  said  no  more.  The 
secret  rose  up  between  them,  wrapped  in  the  thickest, 
deepest  obscurity. 

'  Do  something  for  her,'  Formosa  stammered,  in  a 
trembling  voice. 

But  he  was  summoned  ;  Giovanni  whispered  to  him ;  the 
Marquis  was  undecided  for  a  minute. 

'  I  will  come  back  at  once,'  he  said  as  he  went  off. 

The  doctor  had  wrapped  the  invalid's  little  feet  in  warm 
clothes  ;  now  he  wanted  to  wrap  up  her  hands.  All  at  once 
he  felt  a  slight  pressure  on  his  hand :  Bianca  Maria  with 
open  eyes  was  quietly  looking  at  him.  The  doctor's  fore- 
head wrinkled  a  little  with  surprise  just  for  a  moment. 


78  THE  LAND  OF  COCKA  YNE 

1  How  do  you  feel  ?'  he  asked,  leaning  over  the  invalid. 

She  gave  a  tired  little  smile,  and  waved  her  hand  as  if  to 
tell  him  to  wait,  that  she  could  not  speak  yet. 

'  All  right,  very  good,'  the  doctor  said  heartily.  '  Don't 
speak  ;'  and  he  made  Margherita,  who  was  coming  in,  keep 
silence,  too. 

The  servant's  poor  tired  eyes  shone  with  joy  when  she 
saw  Bianca  Maria  smiling. 

'  Are  you  better  ?     Make  a  sign,'  the  doctor  asked  tenderly. 

She  made  an  effort,  and  very  low,  instead  of  a  sign,  she 
pronounced  the  word  '  Better.'  The  voice  was  low,  but 
quiet.  With  a  medical  man's  familiarity,  he  took  one  of 
her  hands  in  his  to  warm  it. 

'  Thank  you  !'  said  she  after  a  time. 

'  For  what  ?'  he  said,  rather  put  out. 

'  For  everything,'  she  replied,  smiling  again. 

Now,  it  seemed,  she  had  quite  got  back  the  power  of 
speaking.  She  spoke,  but  kept  quite  still,  only  living  in- 
tensely in  her  eyes  and  smile. 

'  For  everything — what  do  you  mean  ?'  he  asked,  piqued 
by  a  lively  curiosity. 

'  I  understood,'  said  she,  with  a  profound  look. 

'  You  were  conscious  all  the  time  ?' 

'  All.  I  could  neither  move  nor  speak,  but  I  under- 
stood.' 

'  Ah  !'  said  he  thoughtfully.  He  sent  Margherita  to  let 
the  Marquis  know  that  his  daughter  had  recovered  con- 
sciousness. 

'  Were  you  in  pain  ?' 

'  Yes,  a  great  deal,  from  not  being  able  to  come  out  of 
my  faint.  I  wept ;  I  felt  a  pain  at  my  heart.' 

'  Yes,  yes,'  he  said.     '  Don't  speak  any  more — rest.' 

The  doctor  made  a  sign  to  the  Marquis,  who  was  coming 
in,  to  keep  silence.  Formosa  leant  over  his  daughter's  bed 
and  touched  her  forehead  with  his  hand,  as  if  he  was  blessing 
her.  Her  eyelids  fluttered  and  she  smiled. 

'  Your  daughter  was  conscious  during  her  swoon — the 
rarest  kind  of  fainting  fit.' 

'Was  she  conscious?'  the  Marquis  asked  in  a  strange 
voice. 

'  Yes ;  she  saw  and  heard  everything.  It  comes  from 
sensitiveness  carried  to  excess.' 

Then  he  poured  out  more  brandy  in  the   teaspoon   for 


DR.  AM  ATI  79 

Bianca  Maria  to  take.  Don  Carlo  Cavalcanti's  face 
twitched.  He  leant  over  the  bed,  and  asked  : 

'  What  did  you  see  ?     Tell  me — what  did  you  see  ?' 

The  daughter  did  not  answer.  She  looked  at  her  father 
in  such  sad  surprise  that  the  doctor,  turning  round,  noticed 
it  and  frowned.  He  had  not  heard  what  the  father  asked 
his  daughter,  and  he  again  felt  the  great  family  secret 
coming  up,  seeing  Bianca  Maria's  gentle,  sad  glance. 

'  Don't  ask  her  anything,'  the  doctor  said  brusquely  to  the 
Marquis  di  Formosa. 

The  old  patrician  restrained  a  disdainful  shrug.  He 
brooded  over  his  daughter's  face,  as  if  he  wanted  to  get  the 
secret  out  by  magnetism.  She  lowered  her  eyelids,  but 
suffering  was  in  her  face ;  then  she  looked  at  the  doctor,  as 
if  she  wanted  help. 

'  Do  you  want  anything  ?'  he  asked. 

'  There  is  a  man  at  my  door :  make  him  go  away,'  she 
whispered  in  a  frightened  tone. 

The  doctor  started ;  so  did  her  father.  In  fact,  outside 
the  door,  in  his  invariable  wretched  waiting  attitude,  was 
Pasqualino  De  Feo,  dirty,  ragged,  with  unkempt  beard  and 
pale,  streaky  red  cheeks.  The  Marquis  had  left  him  in  the 
drawing-room,  but  he  slid  along  to  Bianca  Maria's  room 
with  the  timid,  quiet  step  of  a  beggar  who  fears  to  be  chased 
from  all  doors. 

'  Who  is  that  man  ?'  said  the  doctor  in  that  rough  tone  of 
his,  going  up  to  the  door,  as  if  to  chase  him  away. 

'  He  is  a  friend,'  the  Marquis  answered,  hurrying  forward 
in  a  vague,  embarrassed  way. 

'  Send  him  away  !'  the  doctor  said  sternly. 

Outside  the  door  the  Marquis  and  Don  Pasqualino  chat- 
tered in  a  lively  whisper.  Bianca  Maria  looked  as  if  she 
could  hear  what  her  father  said  outside ;  at  one  point  she 
shook  her  head. 

'  Do  you  want  that  man  sent  away  from  the  house  ?' 

'  Leave  him,'  she  said  feebly.  '  It  would  annoy  my 
father.' 

Ah !  the  doctor  knew  nothing  at  all.  Even  now,  on 
coming  back  to  stern  realities,  he  blamed  himself  for  the 
sad,  dark  romance  coming  into  his  life  ;  but  an  overmaster- 
ing feeling  entangled  him,  which  he  thought  was  scientific 
curiosity.  Hours  were  passing,  evening  was  coming  on  ;  he 
had  made  none  of  his  visits,  and  he  stayed  on  in  that  poor 


8o  THE  LAND  OF  COCKA  YNE 

aristocratic  sick  lady's  room,  as  if  he  could  not  tear  himself 
away. 

'  I  ought  to  go,'  he  said,  as  if  to  himself. 

'  But  you  will  come  back  ?'  she  asked  in  a  whisper. 

'  Yes  .  .  .'  he  said,  determined  to  conquer  himself  and  not 
come  back  again. 

'  Do  come  back  !'  in  a  humble  voice,  beseechingly. 

'  I  am  here — just  next  door.  If  you  are  in  pain,  send  for  me.' 

'  Yes,  yes,'  she  replied,  quieted  at  the  idea  of  being  pro- 
tected. 

'  Adieu,  madame !' 

'  A  Dieu  !'  she  said,  pointedly  separating  the  two  words. 

Margherita  went  with  him,  thanking  him  softly  for  having 
saved  her  mistress ;  but  he  had  again  become  an  energetic, 
busy  man,  inimical  to  words. 

'  Where  is  the  Marquis  ?'  he  insisted  on  knowing. 

'  In  the  drawing-room,  Professor.' 

And  she  took  him  there.  It  was  just  so.  Don  Carlo 
Cavalcanti,  Marquis  di  Formosa,  and  Pasqualino  De  Feo 
were  walking  up  and  down  silently.  It  was  almost  dark : 
still,  the  doctor  examined  the  medium  with  a  scrutinizing, 
suspicious  eye. 

'  How  is  Bianca  Maria  ?'  asked  Formosa,  coming  out  of  a 
dream. 

'  Better  now,'  the  doctor  replied  in  a  short,  cold  tone ; 
'  but  she  has  been  struck  prematurely,  owing  to  a  growing 
want  of  balance,  moral  and  physical.  If  you  don't  give  her 
sun,  movement,  air,  quiet,  and  cheerfulness,  she  may  die — 
from  one  day  to  another.' 

'Don't  say  so,  doctor!'  the  father  cried  out,  angry  and 
grieved. 

1 1  must  tell  you,  because  it  is  so.  I  don't  know  the 
reason  of  to-day's  illness — I  don't  want  to  know  it ;  but  she 
is  ill,  you  understand — ill !  She  needs  sun  and  peace — peace 
and  sun.  If  you  want  a  doctor,  I  am  always  near  ;  that  is 
my  profession.  But  I  have  made  out  a  prescription.  Send 
your  daughter  to  the  country.  If  she  stays  another  year  in 
this  house,  only  seeing  you  and  going  to  the  nunnery,  she 
will  die,  I  assure  you,'  he  persisted  coldly,  as  if  this  truth 
ought  to  be  announced  decisively,  as  if  he  wanted  to  con- 
vince his  own  unwilling  mind  also. 

'  Doctor,  doctor,  do  not  say  that !'  Formosa  moaned, 
asking  for  mercy. 


DR.  A  MAT  I  8 1 

'  She  is  ill ;  she  will  die.  To  the  country — the  country  ! 
Good-evening,  Marquis!' 

He  went  off,  as  if  trying  to  escape.  The  Marquis  and  the 
medium,  who  had  not  said  a  word,  went  on  again  with  their 
silent  walk.  Now  and  then  Formosa  sighed  deeply. 

'  The  Spirit  that  helps  me '  the  medium  breathed  out. 

'  Eh  ?'  the  other  cried  out,  starting. 

'  Warns  me  that  Donna  Bianca  Maria  has  had  a  heavenly 
vision  .  .  .  and  that  she  will  tell  you  it  in  an  allegory.' 

'  What  do  you  say  ?  Is  it  possible  ?  Has  the  Supreme 
Being  granted  me  this  favour  ?  Is  it  possible  ?' 

'  The  Spirit  does  not  deceive,'  the  medium  said  sen- 
tentiously. 

'That  is  true — it  is  true!'  Formosa  murmured,  looking 
into  the  darkness  with  wild  eyes. 


CHAPTER  V 

CARNIVAL   AT    NAPLES 

FROM  the  first  days  of  January,  Naples  was  taken  with  a 
mania  for  work  that  spread  from  one  house  and  shop  to 
another,  from  street  to  street,  quarter  to  quarter,  from 
fashionable  parts  to  the  poorest,  with  a  continuous  move- 
ment, rising  and  falling.  A  stronger  noise  of  saws,  planes  and 
hammers  came  from  the  factories  and  workshops :  in  the 
shops,  with  doors  left  ajar,  and  in  the  houses  they  sat  up  late : 
the  smallest  as  well  as  the  big  industries  seemed  to  have  got 
a  mysterious  impulse,  a  breath  of  new  life,  into  their  half- 
dying  state. 

The  demand  for  gloves  had  increased  beyond  bounds, 
especially  white  and  dove  -  coloured  ones :  the  humblest 
general  shops  kept  them.  In  the  artificial-flower  shops,  that 
compete  with  the  French  trade  with  growing  success,  a  great 
quantity  of  boughs,  bunches,  wreaths  of  flowers,  and  ferns 
were  got  ready ;  big  and  small  bouquets  of  bright,  warm- 
coloured  flowers  to  take  the  eye — the  finest  intended  for 
ladies'  hair  and  bosoms,  the  coarser  for  decorating  houses, 
shops,  horses  and  carriages.  Roses,  camellias,  pinks,  were 
most  in  request.  At  all  the  tailors'  and  dressmakers',  satin, 
velvet,  gauze,  crape,  were  draped  in  all  styles,  made  into 
dresses,  mantles,  hoods,  and  scarves;  whilst  at  the  shoe- 
makers', binders  spent  ten  hours  a  day  making  pink,  blue, 
white,  gray,  and  lilac  shoes,  fancy,  gold-embroidered  boots, 
and  some  bound  in  fur.  The  glove,  flower,  dress,  and 
shoe  makers'  work  began  the  first  hours  in  the  morning  and 
ended  at  eleven  at  night ;  but  the  only  others  that  came  up 
to  them  were  the  cardboard  shops.  Here  paper,  in  men 
and  women's  hands,  was  bent  into  a  thousand  shapes  and 
sizes.  It  was  painted,  cut  out,  twisted,  even  curled  up ; 
it  was  made  up  with  straw,  metal,  and  rich  brocade  stuff, 
starting  from  the  twisted  paper  that  holds  a  sweet  or  cracker 
to  the  big  expensive  box.  From  the  little  chocolate-box, 


CARNIVAL  AT  NAPLES  83 

made  of  cardboard  and  a  scrap  of  satin,  to  the  handsome,  neat 
satchel  with  a  second  cardboard  lining  ;  from  the  roll,  made 
of  two  or  three  old  gambling  cards,  a  little  Bristol  board, 
and  bright-coloured  pictures,  to  straw  cornucopias,  covered 
with  ribbons ;  from  ugly,  mean  things  to  lovely  and  expensive 
ones,  the  work  was  never-ending.  All  this  paper-work  was 
arranged  on  large  boards ;  the  colours  were  dazzling  and 
took  the  eye.  Every  day  they  were  sent  off  to  the  sweet- 
shops, where  they  were  filled  with  confetti,  dainties,  sweets, 
and  sugar  almonds. 

Yes,  the  work  was  hardest,  always,  in  the  confectioners', 
from  the  humble  Fragala  of  San  Lorenzo  quarter  and  the 
gorgeous  but  middle-class  Fragala  of  Spirito  Santo  up  to 
the  exquisite  fashionable  confectioner  in  Piazza  San  Ferdi- 
nando.  Above  all,  there  was  a  grand  making  of  caraways, 
white  and  coloured,  of  all  sizes,  with  caraway-seeds  and  a 
powdery  sugar  covering  ;  there  were  whole  stores  of  them 
in  tins,  canisters  of  all  sizes,  overflowing  baskets  made 
like  canisters,  all  kept  carefully  from  damp,  which  ruins 
caraways.  Such  a  stock!— if  it  had  been  gunpowder, 
there  would  have  been  enough  to  conquer  an  army.  The 
other  heavy  work  was  getting  sausages  and  black-puddings 
ready,  all  covered  with  yellow  bits  of  Spanish  bread — pig's 
blood,  that  is  to  say — made  up  with  chocolate,  pistachios, 
vanilla,  lemon,  and  cinnamon,  so  presented  as  to  hide  the 
coarseness.  In  the  back-shops  they  weighed  cinnamon, 
sliced  lemons,  crushed  pistachio  nuts,  boiled  sweets  of  all 
colours  and  kinds  ;  ovens  roared,  stoves  were  made  red-hot, 
kettles  boiled  and  gurgled,  and  workmen,  in  shirt-sleeves 
and  caps,  with  bare  arms  and  necks,  stirring  with  big  ladles, 
beating  pestles  in  marble  mortars,  looked  like  odd  figures 
in  purgatory,  lighted  up  by  the  furnace  flames. 

All  trades  were  busy  :  advertisements  were  put  up  ;  whole 
sheets  of  them  were  spread  on  the  city  walls.  Fashionable 
barbers  took  on  new  lads  ;  the  three  celebrated  Naples 
pizzaiuoli  of  Freddo  and  Chiaia  Lanes,  of  Carita  Square, 
of  Port  Alba,  informed  the  public,  which  loves  pizza  with 
Marano  and  Procida  wine,  that  they  would  be  open  till 
morning.  The  Cafe  Napoli,  the  Grande,  and  the  Europa 
covered  their  windows  with  thick  cloths,  and  held  a  grand 
cleaning  up  all  through  the  rooms  ;  the  theatres  announced 
four  times  more  illuminations,  whilst  at  the  door  of  fancy 
shops,  the  windows  of  miserable  or  fashionable  bazaars, 

6—2 


84  THE  LAND  OF  COCKA  YNE 

were  shown  black  velvet  masks,  wax  noses,  and  huge  card- 
board heads,  three  times  the  natural  size,  and  much  uglier 
than  Nature ;  network  masks,  to  protect  the  face  from 
caraways,  ladles  for  throwing  them,  long  tongs  for  handing 
up  sweets  or  flowers  to  the  balconies,  scarves  and  ribbons, 
fantastic  ballroom  decorations,  and  entire  costumes  of  tissue- 
paper.  Along  the  streets  in  Monte  Calvario  quarter, 
across  and  parallel  to  Toledo,  in  the  darkest  old-clothes 
shops  and  retail  dealers',  dominos  hung  on  wooden  pegs  for 
the  popular  balls  :  Mephistopheles  costumes  in  red  and  blue, 
Spanish  grandees  in  cotton  velvet,  harlequins  made  up  of  old 
carpets,  Sorrento  peasant  women's  dresses  in  gay  colours, 
Pulcinellos,  and  almost  white  dress ;  above  all,  shining 
helmets,  with  cuirass  of  cardboard  to  match,  and  wooden 
swords.  Masquerading  costumes  were  on  hire  everywhere 
for  a  few  francs  ;  they  gave  a  jocular  tone  to  these  dull  lanes, 
hanging  even  from  the  first-floor  balconies,  sticking  out  in  a 
row  from  the  damp,  dark  shops  with  grinning,  devilish  masks, 
or  showing  sickly  faces  of  white  or  greeny-blue  satin. 

Wherever  one  went,  in  lower  class  neighbourhoods  as 
well  as  in  aristocratic  parts,  one  could  see  a  lively  movement, 
cheerful  labour,  a  noisy  bustling  about,  a  never-ending 
activity,  a  daily  and  nightly  ferment  of  all  forces,  the  constant, 
lively,  energetic  action  of  a  whole  peaceful,  laborious  town, 
intent  upon  one  single  piece  of  work,  given  up  to  it  heart  and 
mind,  hand  and  foot,  using  up  its  nerves,  blood,  and  muscles 
in  this  one  tremendous  work.  Everywhere,  everywhere, 
one  guessed  or  knew  it ;  it  caught  the  eye  ;  it  was  written 
up  what  this  great  work  was — '  For  the  coming  carnival  fes- 
tivities.'' 

Nothing  else  but  the  carnival.  The  great  city  gave 
itself  over  to  that  impetuous,  joyous  exertion,  not  for  love 
of  work  in  itself — for  work  that  is  the  cause  and  consequence 
of  well-doing,  which  in  itself  is  the  groundwork  of  goodness 
and  respectability.  The  great  town  had  not  given  itself 
over  to  that  lively  activity  for  any  immediate  civic  reason, 
for  hygienic  improvements,  industrial  art  exhibitions,  chang- 
ing old  quarters  or  making  new  ones  :  it  was  for  the  carnival 
only — a  carnival  by  official  decree  of  the  Prefecture  and 
of  the  Municipal  Palace ;  a  carnival  warmed  up  by  com- 
mittees, associations,  commissions,  set  agoing  by  thousands 
of  people,  arranged  and  carried  out  as  a  great  institution, 
widely  spread  in  the  minds  of  the  whole  five  hundred 


CARNIVAL  AT  NAPLES  85 

thousand  inhabitants,  made  to  resound  as  far  as  the  southern 
provinces,  echoing  even  to  Rome  and  to  Florence,  putting 
in  the  place  of  any  other  project,  initiative  or  work,  this  of 
the  carnival ;  nothing  but  the  carnival — enthusiastically, 
even  deliriously. 

But,  as  at  the  bottom  of  all  joyous  things  in  this  land  of 
Cockayne,  there  is  an  ever-flowing  vein  01  bitterness.  This 
carnival,  that  turned  all  the  gravest  persons  and  things  in 
the  town  into  fun  and  masquerade — this  carnival  was  a 
merciful  thing.  From  autumn  to  January  the  damp, 
grievous  scirocco  had  blown  in  Naples'  streets,  overcoming 
the  energies  of  healthy  people,  and  making  invalids'  maladies 
worse.  The  winter  crowd  of  foreigners  was  smaller  than 
usual.  Many  works  had  been  stopped  for  a  time,  and  those 
just  starting  had  been  delayed,  so  that  many  poor  people 
slept  on  the  church  steps  under  San  Francesco  di  Paola 
portico  and  the  Immacolata  obelisk  in  Piazza  Gesu.  A 
great  wind  of  fasting  had  blown  with  the  scirocco,  so  that 
the  official  carnival,  carried  out  by  the  desire  of  thousands, 
was  intended,  if  it  succeeded,  to  satisfy  for  ten  days  at  least 
a  lot  of  starving  people,  from  shoe-binders  to  flower-makers, 
from  tailors  to  shop-clerks,  from  wandering  salesmen  to  the 
small  shopkeepers.  Twenty  days'  carnival ! — that  is  to  say, 
ten  days'  bread,  and  a  relish  with  it.  The  idea  had  been 
taken  up  at  once.  All  helped,  even  the  least  enterprising, 
knowing  they  were  putting  out  their  money  at  good  interest. 
Carnival,  carnival,  in  the  streets  and  balconies,  in  the  gate- 
ways and  houses ! 

On  that  Shrovetide  Thursday  the  damp  winter  scirocco 
had  got  a  spring  softness.  Toledo  Road,  where  the  carnival 
spread  from  one  end  to  the  other,  both  in  its  popular  and 
fashionable  form,  had  put  on  an  extraordinary  appear- 
ance. All  the  big  shops  were  shut.  The  tradesmen  and 
their  ladies  wished  to  enjoy  the  day's  outing,  also  they  were 
nervous  about  their  plate-glass  windows.  All  the  signs 
were  covered  with  linen  or  tow,  as  were  the  gas-lamps.  As 
to  the  common  smaller  shops,  they  had  taken  out  the  glass 
and  put  up  wooden  platforms,  and  the  owners,  with  their 
friends  and  children,  sat  with  a  store  of  caraways,  having 
to  do  battle  almost  face  to  face  with  the  people  on  the  pave- 
ment ;  but  they  bravely  flourished  their  ladles  all  the  same. 
The  balconies  on  the  first  floor  were  all  differently  draped 
with  bright,  cheap  muslins,  put  up  with  a  few  nails  or  pins, 


86  THE  LAND  OF  COCKAYNE 

with  a  very  Southern  and  rather  barbarous  love  of  gay 
colours,  some  in  the  style  of  church  decorations,  blue,  red, 
white,  and  gold,  some  tucked  back  with  big  camellias,  roses, 
and  dahlias,  to  make  the  balcony  look  like  an  alcove,  an 
actress's  room,  a  saint's  niche,  or  a  wild  beasts'  show  even. 
The  finest  and  smartest  hangings  began  near  Santa  Brigida. 
Some  Swiss  gentlemen  had  had  a  chalet  put  up  in  their 
balcony,  and  the  ladies  wore  simple,  rather  silly  costumes, 
with  hair  down,  a  big  cap,  and  gold  crosses  at  their  necks. 
Just  after  that,  at  Santa  Brigida,  a  great  man's  natural  son 
had  hung  his  balconies  with  dark-blue  velvet,  covered  with 
a  silver  net,  which  might  represent  the  firmament,  the 
kingdom  of  the  moon,  or  the  sea,  but,  at  any  rate,  it 
surprised  the  good  Naples  folk.  A  balcony  near  the  Conte 
di  Mola  Lane  was  made  into  a  kitchen,  with  a  stove,  kettle, 
frying  and  stew  pans,  and  eight  or  ten  youths  of  good  family 
worked  as  cooks  and  scullions,  with  white  caps  and  aprons. 
A  famous  beautiful  woman,  whose  beauty  brought  her 
wealth  and  led  her  into  deadly  sin,  had  changed  her  balcony 
into  a  Japanese  hut,  all  stuffs  and  tapestries.  Now  and 
then  she  appeared  wrapped  in  flowing,  soft  robes,  just 
gathered  in  at  the  waist,  with  her  black  hair  caught  up  in 
a  shiny  knot  held  by  pins,  her  eyebrows  arched  in  an  un- 
varying look  of  surprise. 

The  common  people  smiled  admiringly  as  they  passed. 
They  said,  with  their  vague  one  idea  of  the  East,  '  The  Turk, 
the  Turk  !'  All  these  balconies,  draped  from  one  end  of  the 
street  to  the  other,  and  the  shop  decorations,  began  to  make 
one  dizzy  with  bright  colours,  firing  the  imagination,  giving 
that  quick  feeling  of  voluptuous  joy  Southerners  get  from 
outside  impressions.  Towards  eleven,  wandering  salesmen 
began  to  go  about,  shrieking  out  their  wares.  They  sold 
little  boxes  of  inferior  sweets  made  in  bright  colours — red 
bags,  green  and  white  boxes,  lilac  and  yellow  horns,  carried 
in  big,  flat  baskets  in  one  hand.  They  sold  artificial  flowers 
also,  made  into  sprays,  cockades,  and  bunches,  tied  on  to 
long  poles.  Real  flowers  were  sold,  too — white  camellias  and 
perfumed  violets,  from  big  baskets  ;  also  masks,  ladles,  linen 
bags  for  caraways,  red  and  yellow  paper  sunflowers,  that 
twirled  round  at  every  breath  of  wind  like  wild  things. 
They  sold  a  bad  quality  of  caraways,  bought  cheap,  in- 
tended to  be  sold  dear  in  the  blind,  furious  time  of  the  battle. 

At    mid-day    the    traffic    in    sweetmeat-boxes,   flowers, 


CA RNIVAL  A  T  NA PLES  87 

musks,  and  windmills  began.  Already  the  crowd  began  to 
fill  the  balconies  and  pavements,  running  up  hurriedly  from 
all  the  side-streets.  On  the  first-floor  windows  and  bal- 
conies a  living,  many-coloured  hedge  of  women  swayed 
about.  There  was  a  shimmer  of  girlish  forms  brightly 
dressed ;  their  faces  gently  moved  up  and  down  like  big 
pink  and  white  flower-heads,  with  a  blood-red  touch  now 
and  then  from  an  open  parasol  or  scarlet  hat.  The  bal- 
conies and  windows  of  the  second  story  were  filled  with 
still  more  excited  people,  whilst  on  the  fourth  children  and 
girls  here  and  there  had  thought  of  letting  down  a  basket 
tied  to  a  long  bit  of  ribbon  to  fish  with,  smiling  from  above 
on  some  courteous  unknown,  who  put  a  flower,  some  sweets, 
or  a  chocolate-box  into  the  baskets  of  these  smiling  beings 
so  near  the  sky.  The  people  increased  everywhere.  Traffic 
with  the  hawkers  went  on  from  the  balconies  to  the  streets, 
with  loud  discussions,  offers,  and  rejections,  making  the 
noise  twice  as  great. 

Caraways  were  not  to  be  thrown  before  two  o'clock,  by 
the  committee's  express  order,  but  some  stray  fights  were 
started  already.  At  San  Sepolcro  corner  a  peasant  nurse, 
slowly  swinging  her  petticoats,  was  fired  at  by  some  school- 
boys at  close  quarters.  A  grave  gentleman,  in  top-hat  and 
long  great-coat,  was  violently  assaulted  in  Carita  Square. 
He  tried  to  go  at  them  with  his  stick,  but  he  was  hissed. 
Then  he  called  for  the  police,  announcing  pompously  he 
was  Cavaliere  Domenico  Mayer,  a  State  functionary ;  but 
the  police  would  not  help,  saying  it  was  carnival,  and  that 
he  should  not  tempt  people  with  his  top-hat.  And  then  the 
misanthropic  Secretary  of  the  Finance  Department,  full  of 
bitterness,  had  gone  into  the  San  Liborio  Lane  to  escape. 
A  lady  in  a  broad-brimmed  hat,  not  able  to  move  from  one 
spot  in  the  pavement  near  San  Giacomo,  had  a  continuous 
shower  of  caraways  poured  on  her  by  a  child  on  the  third 
story.  She  heard  it  fall  on  her  felt  and  feathers  without 
daring  to  move  or  raise  her  head,  in  case  she  got  the 
caraways  in  her  face. 

At  two  o'clock  exactly  a  cannon-shot  was  heard  in  the 
distance.  Then  there  was  a  sigh  of  relief  from  one  end  of 
Toledo  to  the  other,  from  the  street  to  the  upper  stories,  and 
the  crowd  swayed  about. 

The  four  Rossi  Palace  balconies,  first  floor  on  the  right, 
looking  into  Toledo,  were  draped  in  blue  and  white  linen, 


88  THE  LAND  OF  COCKA  YNE 

caught  back  by  big  red  camellias.  Luisella  Fragala.  and  her 
guests  had  thought  of  white  and  blue  dominoes,  with  high, 
ridiculous  hats  and  red  cockades,  and  all  the  Naddeos,  all 
the  Durantes,  all  the  Antonaccis,  fat  or  thin,  young  or 
old,  wore  dominoes  made  in  the  house  themselves  to  save 
their  clothes  from  white  powder,  and,  according  to  them, 
give  an  elegant  look  to  the  balcony.  Some  looked  like  big 
bundles,  others  like  long  ghosts ;  but  the  carnival  madness 
had  overcome  these  middle-class  women.  Besides  all,  trade 
was  flourishing  in  these  days.  So  many  goods  were  sold  ; 
the  men  came  back  to  the  house  in  high  good-humour,  whilst 
all  winter  had  been  one  complaint,  and  economy  had  got 
narrower  and  harder  to  bear.  How  happy  they  were,  all  these 
placid,  industrious  little  women  !  In  this  time  of  carnival 
excitement  they  could  share,  in  their  blue  and  white  fancy 
dresses  and  red  cockades.  Luisella  Fragala  had  thought 
out  the  costume,  and  that  monkey  Carmela  Naddeo  took  up 
the  idea  at  once  and  made  others  follow  suit.  They  were 
all  there,  ladles  in  hand,  guessing  what  sort  of  carriages 
were  to  appear,  exaggerating,  contradicting,  shrieking, 
laughing,  hanging  over  the  railings  to  see  if  any  carriages 
were  coming  round  by  the  Museum.  Only  sometimes  a 
cloud  came  over  Luisella  Fragala's  face  ;  some  unhappy 
thought  was  behind  her  brown  eyes.  Perhaps  she  was 
troubled  by  the  thought  that  the  balcony  hangings  would 
be  spoilt  by  the  confetti.  Perhaps  she  would  have  liked  to 
keep  the  shop  open  even  on  that  profitable  Carnival  Thurs- 
day, her  love  of  selling  having  instinctively  grown  so  great, 
as  if  by  that  alone  she  saw  a  chance  of  being  saved  from 
imminent  peril.  Perhaps  she  secretly  regretted  Cesare 
Fragala's  absence.  He  was  often  away  lately,  and  had 
disappeared  early  that  Thursday,  too.  But  these  clouds 
were  fleeting.  Luisella  was  going  about  from  one  balcony 
to  another  with  her  hood  down,  vainly  looking  for  places  for 
the  Mayer  family,  who  had  come  without  being  invited. 
All  quietly  snubbed  them,  so  as  not  to  give  up  their  places, 
saying  to  each  other  that  the  mother  and  daughter  had  no 
dominoes,  and  they  made  a  false  note  on  the  balcony.  They 
set  themselves  in  the  third  row,  the  mother,  as  usual,  rheu- 
matic, and  wrapped  in  flannel  to  the  finger-tips  ;  the  girl's 
big  eyes  still  dully  misanthropic,  as  were  her  swollen,  dis- 
coloured lips ;  the  brother,  as  usual,  very  hungry. 
'  We  will  not  get  even  a  chocolate-box,'  they  grumbled 


CARNIVAL  AT  NAPLES  89 

one  after  the  other,  muttering  with  their  unending  rage 
against  humanity. 

But  the  great  carnival  wave,  with  ever-increasing  force, 
swallowed  up  their  rage  against  mankind  also.  The  noise 
among  the  carriages  got  tremendous.  The  confetti  war  had 
begun  between  them  and  the  pony-carts,  done  up  with 
myrtle  as  an  attempt  at  decoration,  all  being  well  filled 
with  masqueraders  of  both  sexes  dressed  in  bright-coloured 
calicoes.  The  Parascandolos,  who  lived  on  the  other  side 
of  the  Rossi  Palace,  kept  their  balcony  shut,  for  the  Signora 
considered  herself  in  mourning  ;  but  Don  Gennaro  Para- 
scandolo,  in  a  Russian  linen  dust-cloak  and  cap,  with  a 
bag  of  sweets  hung  round  his  neck,  after  walking  along 
Toledo,  greeted  from  hundreds  of  balconies,  where  his  past, 
present,  and  future  clients  were,  had  gone  to  his  club  at 
Santa  Brigida,  and  from  there,  amid  a  group  of  young  and 
old  boon  companions,  made  a  life  of  it,  as  they  said  there. 
They  joked  about  him,  asked  him  how  many  cars  he  had 
lent  money  for,  and  if  it  was  true  his  collection  of  bills 
was  increased  by  many  princely  autographs.  Ninetto 
Costa,  the  smart,  lucky  stockbroker,  who  had  his  own 
reasons  for  making  a  fuss  with  him,  said,  to  flatter  him, 
that  not  a  handful  of  caraways  was  thrown  that  day  he 
was  not  interested  in  either  providing  or  scattering.  Don 
Gennaro  Parascandolo  laughed  paternally,  not  denying  it. 
He  answered  those  who  asked  him  for  coppers  as  a  joke, 
'  I  have  had  to  get  the  loan  of  forty  pounds  from  a  friend  to 
hold  carnival  with.'  Others  around  shouted,  whistled,  but 
always  flattered  him.  One  never  knew  when  one  might 
fall  into  his  hands.  He  stood  out  among  them  all  by  his 
great  height  and  the  little  cap  oddly  set  on  his  big  head, 
throwing  ladlefuls  of  caraways  at  the  carriages  and  pony- 
carts. 

Slovenly,  in  her  black  dress,  grown  greenish,  and  her  torn 
shawl-fringe,  Carmela  the  cigar-maker  had  set  herself  at  the 
corner  of  D'Affitto  Lane,  looking  at  the  passing  carriages 
with  her  hollow  eyes,  her  fine  fresh  mouth  working  im- 
patiently, the  only  feature  that  was  still  young  in  her  worn 
face.  Handfuls,  ladlefuls  of  caraways  often  flew  from  the 
balconies  and  the  street,  frequently  hitting  her  face  or  back  ; 
but  she  only  moved  a  little  to  avoid  it,  smiling  at  the  annoy- 
ance, and  cleaned  her  face  with  a  corner  of  her  shawl. 

She  was  waiting  there  to  see  her  lover,  Raffaele,  called 


90  THE  LAND  OF  COCKA  YNE 

Farfariello,  pass.  He  was  in  a  carriage  with  four  others, 
all  dressed  alike ;  and,  indeed,  to  get  this  dress,  she  had 
had  to  sell  some  copper  pans,  a  chest  of  drawers,  and  two 
long  branches  of  artificial  flowers  under  a  glass  case,  all 
things  she  was  keeping  for  her  marriage.  How  it  tore  her 
heart  to  sell  these  things,  bought  bit  by  bit  by  dint  of  hard 
saving  ! 

But  Raffaele  had  insisted  on  having  forty  francs — blood 
from  a  snail — because  he  was  in  despair  at  making  a  poor 
appearance  among  his  friends;  and  she,  getting  white  when 
she  heard  him  swear,  had  sold  all  these  things,  and,  like  a 
fool,  was  quite  pleased  at  heart  when  she  handed  him  the 
money,  because  he  had  smiled  and  promised  to  take  her  and 
her  mother  to  an  inn  at  Campo  the  last  Carnival  Sunday  if 
she  took  as  much  as  even  an  ambo  on  Saturday.  She,  quite 
proud  of  this  fantastic  promise,  kept  down  her  heart's 
bitterness,  and  went  as  slovenly  as  a  beggar  that  carnival 
day,  her  hair  falling  on  her  neck,  without  a  sou  in  her 
pocket,  to  see  her  handsome  lover  passing  proudly  in  a 
carriage,  smoking  a  Naples  cigar,  in  new  clothes  and  hat  on 
one  side,  with  that  intensely  indifferent  look  characteristic 
of  the  guappo,  or  aspirants  to  it.  She  waited  patiently, 
thinking  only  of  him,  not  caring  about  her  day's  work,  as 
there  was  a  holiday  at  the  factory.  She  quietly  bore  all  the 
pushing  about  that  noonday  carnival  that  she  took  no  part 
in,  for  she  was  wrapped  up  like  a  Buddhist  in  contemplation 
of  her  lover. 

On  the  people  went,  on  foot  and  in  carriages,  through  the 
clouds  of  caraways,  flowers,  chocolates,  through  the  shower 
of  coloured  paper  from  the  upper  stories,  where,  as  they 
were  not  able  to  take  part  in  the  caraway  war,  they  amused 
themselves  in  that  way.  The  noise  got  clamorous,  swaying 
about  sonorously,  rising  to  the  skies  that  gentle  scirocco  day. 

Carmela,  confused  by  the  noise  and  wild  sights  that  noon- 
day, when  Naples'  rejoicing  became  epic,  screwed  up  her 
eyes,  not  to  lose  sight  of  the  two-horse  carriages  going  along 
at  a  foot-pace,  white  with  powder.  Now  and  then  one  of 
the  large  cars  appeared.  There  was  the  Parthenope  Siren, 
a  huge,  pink  lady  with  blonde  hair  hanging  down.  She  was 
made  of  cardboard,  and  the  body  ended  up  in  blue  waves. 
This  Siren  was  dragged  along  on  a  car  full  of  men  dressed 
as  fish — oysters,  carp,  bull-heads.  One  car  represented  a 
merchant-vessel,  a  Tartana.  The  ship  had  rigging  and  sailors 


CARNIVAL  A  T  NAPLES  91 

dressed  in  pink  and  white  stripes,  also  in  blue  and  white 
with  long  red  caps.  There  was  a  car  with  eight  or  ten 
Jacks-in-the-box,  from  which  gentlemen  dressed  in  satin 
burst  out  in  the  midst  of  flowers.  On  one  car  all  the 
Neapolitan  masks  were  shown  :  Pulcinella,  Tartaglia,  Don 
Nicolai,  Columbrina,  Barilotto  the  clown,  the  guappo,  the 
old  woman — even  to  the  newest  mask  of  a  pretentious,  fast 
youth,  Don  Felice  Scioscimocca. 

When  these  cars  passed,  very  slowly,  almost  quivering 
on  their  wheels,  showering  down  caraway,  confetti,  and 
presents,  they  were  much  applauded.  The  Siren  excited 
rather  risky  jokes  ;  the  Tartana  was  thought  picturesque ; 
the  Jacks-in-the-box  luxurious  and  smart ;  and  the  Naples 
masks  were  hailed  with  shouts  of  recognition  and  quick- 
flying  dialogues  from  all  the  balconies  in  dialect,  which  the 
masks  replied  to  in  a  lively  way.  There  was  one  swaying 
movement  from  the  top  to  the  bottom  of  Toledo,  both  in 
the  balconies  and  the  crowds  round  the  carriages. 

Carmela  looked  and  looked.  She  saw  the  two  sisters 
Concetta  and  Caterina,  pass  in  a  carriage,  the  horses  covered 
with  flowers  stuck  in  the  shiny  brass  harness.  She  owed 
Donna  Concetta  thirty-five  francs  since  ever  so  long,  and 
managed  to  give  her  a  few  francs  now  and  then  just  for 
interest,  and  she  had  often  staked  on  the  small  game  with 
Donna  Caterina  when  she  had  not  enough  money  for  the 
Government  Lottery,  or,  perhaps,  only  one  penny  left. 
The  sisters  were  in  full  dress,  the  hair  done  up  like  a  trophy 
on  the  top  of  the  head  with  gold  chains,  and  they  wore 
heavy  necklaces,  pearl  earrings,  thick  rings,  keeping  up  their 
usual  discreet,  severe  expression,  casting  oblique  glances,  and 
pursing  up  their  lips.  Two  men  were  with  them  in  work- 
men's Sunday  attire,  with  shiny  long  hair,  hat  over  the  ear,  in 
black  jackets,  with  a  spent  cigar  in  a  corner  of  the  mouth. 
The  four,  silent  and  solemn,  looked  at  each  other  now  and 
then  with  serious,  pleased  glances  of  gratified  pride,  shaking 
their  heads  to  get  rid  of  the  caraways  off  their  hat-brims, 
smiling  at  the  people  who  threw  them.  They  looked  to 
right  and  left  haughtily,  just  like  rich,  common  people. 

Carmela  bit  her  lips  on  seeing  the  two  calm,  ferocious 
heapers-up  of  other  people's  money,  but  immediately  after 
the  usual  words  came  from  her  heart  to  her  lips : 

'  It  doesn't  matter,  it  doesn't  matter.' 

But  a  very  original  car  was  coming  down  from  the  top  of 


92  THE  LAND  OF  COCK  A  YNE 

Toledo,  raising  a  colossal  laugh,  from  right  to  left,  up  and 
down.  It  was  a  great  bed,  with  a  bright  pink  cotton  quilt, 
such  as  are  used  in  Naples.  It  had  an  open  canopy,  with 
images  of  the  Virgin  and  patron  saints  on  the  hangings.  In 
bed,  tucked  in  with  white  sheets,  were  two  people,  with  huge 
pasteboard  heads,  one  an  old  man  in  a  night-cap,  the  other 
an  old  woman  in  a  mob-cap.  Very  caressing,  affected  old 
people  ;  they  nodded  their  great  heads,  pulled  the  coverlids 
from  each  other  with  that  selfish,  shivering  habit  old  people 
have ;  offering  snuff  to  each  other,  bowing,  sneezing,  and 
stretching  themselves  out ;  greeting  people  in  the  balconies, 
thanking  them  for  the  shower  of  caraways  they  got,  and 
shaking  them  off  the  bed-clothes.  It  was  not  found  out  who 
they  were,  but  they  displayed  that  familiar  caricature — a 
corner  of  a  bedroom — without  anyone  thinking  it  too  risky ; 
for  Southerners  are  used  to  sleeping  in  the  open  air,  they 
live  so  much  in  public  in  this  warm,  easy-going  country. 

What  about  it  ?  Everyone  laughed.  Even  the  people 
in  Don  Crescenzio's  shop  at  Nunzio  Corner,  just  beyond 
Carita  Passage,  laughed.  It  was  really  the  lottery  bank, 
No.  117,  a  shop  usually  shut  from  Saturday  at  noon  till 
Tuesday,  the  crush  beginning  on  Thursday  up  to  Saturday 
at  twelve  o'clock. 

Don  Crescenzio,  the  lottery  banker,  a  handsome  man, 
with  a  red  beard,  worked  there  with  his  two  lads,  who  were 
anything  but  lads  :  one,  an  old  man  of  seventy,  bent,  half- 
blind,  his  nose  always  on  the  gambling  register,  made  people 
say  their  lottery  numbers  three  times,  to  make  no  mistakes, 
and  wrote  them  very,  very  slowly.  The  other  was  a  colour- 
less type  of  no  particular  age  ;  his  face  had  undecided  lines, 
his  beard  was  an  indefinite  colour,  one  of  those  queer  beings 
that  are  employed  as  witnesses  by  ushers,  as  middlemen  at 
the  pawn-shop,  as  distributors  of  handbills,  and  agents  for 
furnished  rooms.  Don  Crescenzio  lorded  it  over  his  two 
young  men.  That  Thursday  he  had  quite  changed  his  shop, 
putting  up  a  gallery  in  it  draped  in  white  and  crimson,  to 
which  he  invited  his  best  customers.  Yes,  they  were  all 
there,  those  that  came  every  week  to  put  down  the  best  of 
their  income — money  hardly  earned,  either  snatched  from 
domestic  economies,  or  got  by  cunning  expedient,  bold  at 
first,  and  then  shameful. 

All  were  there  at  the  lottery  shop,  turned  into  a  stand. 
The  Marquis  di  Formosa,  Don  Carlo  Cavalcanti,  with  his 


CARNIVAL  AT  NAPLES  93 

lordly  air  ;  Dr.  Trifari,  red  of  face,  hair,  and  beard,  bloated 
as  if  he  were  going  to  burst,  a  suspicious  look  in  his  false 
blue  eyes ;  Professor  Colaneri,  more  than  ever  that  day, 
clearly  showed  the  indelible  marks  of  a  priest  who  has  given 
up  the  Church  ;  then  Ninetto  Costa,  come  from  his  club  in 
Don  Gennaro  Parascandolo's  company,  felt  drawn  by  a 
powerful,  irresistible  desire  to  his  haunt ;  and  other  eight  or 
ten — a  court  judge,  a  steward  of  a  princely  house,  a  sickly 
painter  of  saints,  and  Cozzolino  the  barber,  who  was  a  great 
Cabalist,  down  to  the  shoeblack  Michele,  in  a  corner  on  the 
ground,  a  hunchback  and  lame,  his  wrinkled  old  face  full  of 
irrestrained  passion  ;  beside  him  was  Gaetano,  the  glove- 
cutter,  more  worn  and  pale  than  before,  his  eyes  burning 
with  discontent,  uneasiness  in  every  line  of  his  face.  Don 
Crescenzio's  clients  held  their  carnival  in  the  shop  dear  to 
their  ruling  passion,  and  as  they  were  tormented  to  buy 
caraways,  they,  too,  threw  them  at  the  carriages,  but 
mostly  at  the  passers-by,  among  whom  they  found  ac- 
quaintances sometimes.  No  one  was  surprised  to  see  such 
different  sorts  of  people  together — a  Marquis,  a  stock-broker, 
a  court  judge,  a  doctor,  a  professor,  down  to  a  workman. 
Carnival,  carnival !  The  gentle  popular  madness  had 
seized  all  brains ;  the  warmish  day,  the  bright  colours,  the 
whims  in  the  thousands  of  vehicles  passing,  the  clamour  of 
a  hundred  thousand  people  overpowered  even  those  suffering 
from  another  fever,  which  was  pushed  back  for  a  time  into 
a  corner  of  the  mind. 

When  Cesare  Fragala  passed  on  foot,  laughing  and 
shouting,  in  a  Russia- linen  dust-cloak  and  travelling-cap, 
two  long  bags  of  caraways  at  his  sides,  which  he  emptied 
against  balconies  of  his  acquaintance  and  went  filling  again 
at  every  corner  of  the  street  from  wandering  salesmen, 
joking  with  everyone,  fat,  strong,  and  jovial,  needing  an 
outlet  to  his  spirits — when  he  passed  before  Don  Cres- 
cenzio's shop  there  was  a  chorus  of  greetings.  Under  the 
Rossi  Palace,  before  his  own  balconies,  he  had  already  had 
half  an  hour's  fight  from  below  with  his  wife  and  her  friends. 
Luisella,  Carmela  Naddeo,  the  Durantes,  and  the  Antonaccis 
had  thought  Cesare's  idea  so  original  and  he  so  charming  that 
they  had  knocked  him  down  by  dint  of  caraway  showers  ;  he 
had  been  obliged  to  run  away,  laughing,  keeping  down  his 
head,  pulling  his  cap  over  his  ears.  There  were  noisy  greet- 
ings, therefore,  from  Don  Crescenzio's  shop,  and  calls  for  him 


94  THE  LAND  OF  COCKA  YNE 

to  come  in.  Was  he  not  a  customer,  too,  always  hopeful  of 
getting  eighty  thousand  francs  hard  cash  to  open  a  shop  in 
San  Ferdinando  ?  But  Cesare  was  too  satisfied  wandering 
about  alone,  laughing  and  shrieking  with  everyone,  buffeted 
by  the  caraways,  red,  panting  with  health  and  fun. 

He  went  among  the  carts  and  carriages,  borne  by  the 
crowd,  through  a  burst  of  excitement,  which  the  time  of  day 
made  keener.  The  quietest  did  silly  things  now.  Those 
standing  on  the  cars,  at  first  only  merry,  looked  like  so  many 
demons.  Raffaele,  nicknamed  Farfariello,  loving  Carmela's 
betrothed,  passed  in  a  carriage  ;  to  be  seen  better,  he  and  his 
friends  had  made  up  their  minds  to  sit  on  the  roof.  From 
there  they  waved  white  silk  handkerchiefs,  tied  to  sticks  like 
flags,  at  the  crowd.  Alas  !  he  did  not  see  her,  the  girl  who 
waited  so  many  hours  for  him  at  the  corner  of  D'Affitto  Lane. 
She,  having  cried  out,  waved  her  arms  and  a  bit  of  white 
stuff,  felt  stunned  at  the  neglect,  but  whispered  to  herself  as 
a  consolation,  '  It  does  not  matter.' 

But  she  still  stayed  there,  hemmed  in  by  that  growing 
carnival  frenzy.  A  thicker  crowd  closed  in  under  the 
balcony  where  the  lovely  lady  dressed  as  a  Japanese  was. 
She,  getting  excited,  began  to  send  down  a  shower  of  con- 
fetti by  handfuls  and  boxfuls,  as  if  she  had  a  store  in  the 
house,  a  servant  handing  them  to  her.  A  shout  of  rogues 
and  enthusiastic  common  folk  rose  to  the  skies,  whilst  she 
from  above,  quite  serious,  but  a  pink  flame  in  her  cheeks, 
recklessly  flung  down  confetti,  sweets,  and  chocolate-boxes. 
On  the  balcony  draped  with  blue  and  silver  net,  the  exalted 
personage's  son  had  thought  of  the  joke  of  tying  a  bottle  of 
champagne,  a  game  pie  or  a  big  chocolate-box,  to  a  long 
rod,  and  letting  it  down  to  the  level  of  the  crowd's  out- 
stretched hands,  pulling  it  up,  dancing  it  about,  amidst  the 
longing  cries,  uplifted  hands,  and  open  mouths  of  the  people 
below,  until  a  shout  of  triumph  announced  some  lucky  one 
had  carried  off  the  prize  of  the  new  Cockayne.  The  rod 
was  pulled  up,  and  the  young  fellows,  who  had  taken  a  mad 
fancy  to  the  game,  tied  on  some  other  eatable  or  drinkable— 
a  bottle  of  bourdeaux,  a  cheese  wrapped  in  silver  paper,  or 
a  bag  of  confetti,  and  the  game  started  again,  with  an  un- 
utterable row  and  obstruction  to  traffic.  The  men  in  the 
cars  now,  having  taken  in  new  stores  as  the  evening  went 
on,  danced,  sang,  and  threw  things,  behaving  like  demons. 

It  was  at  this  most  exciting  time  of  the  day  that  a  new 


CARN1 VAL  AT  NAPLES  95 

cart  came  out  from  a  side-street  of  Toledo,  arriving  late, 
the  horses  drawing  it  at  a  foot-pace.  It  was  queer  and 
fantastic,  being  a  philosopher's  chemical  laboratory,  where 
a  wretched  old  Faust  sat  cursing  all  human  things  in  a 
frozen,  melancholy  way.  It  formed  a  dark  room,  with  two 
shelves  of  books,  a  furnace,  and  an  alchemist's  retort,  and 
there  was  an  open  Koran  on  a  carved  wooden  desk.  A 
bent  old  man  in  a  black  velvet  skull-cap,  with  a  long 
yellowy-white  beard,  tottered  about  the  car,  throwing  boxes 
of  sweets  shaped  like  books,  retorts,  alembics,  furnaces,  to 
the  crowd  in  the  streets  and  balconies,  each  having  a  figure 
of  Mephistopheles.  But  they  were  good  sweets.  Then  a 
chimerical  touch  got  into  the  carnival  fury.  The  sorcerer's 
car  seemed  quite  supernatural.  The  old  man,  whom  the 
laughing  women  in  the  balconies  called  the  Devil,  his  bald 
head  in  the  skull-cap  quivering,  threw  out  things,  magically 
producing  them  from  beneath  the  car.  Now  and  then  amid 
the  clamour  of  the  populace  a  shrill  voice  called  out  to  the 
decrepit  sorcerer,  '  Give  us  lottery  numbers !  give  us  tips !' 

Having  got  to  San  Ferdinando,  Faust's  car  turned  to  go 
back  the  same  way  up  Toledo,  when  a  most  curious,  in- 
describable thing  happened.  The  old  man  took  out  of  a 
copper  alembic,  beside  the  boxes  of  sweets,  long,  narrow 
strips  of  yellow  paper  and  threw  them  to  the  crowd,  who 
rushed  furiously  on  them.  A  shout  went  before,  and 
followed  Faust's  car,  '  These  are  storni,  storni  /' 

To  carry  out  a  new,  splendid,  eccentric  generosity  pleasing 
to  the  people,  the  old  man  threw  lottery-tickets  of  two  or 
three  numbers,  ready  paid  for  next  Saturday,  at  two  sous 
each.  They  are  called  storni.  He  nobly  threw  handfuls  of 
them  to  the  people,  laughing  in  his  thick,  white  beard,  for- 
getting he  was  old,  holding  his  head  back  with  ferocious 
gaiety. 

What  a  shout  everywhere,  from  the  streets  and  windows 
up  to  the  sky  paling  at  sunset !  What  a  lengthened  shout 
of  desire  and  enthusiasm  !  The  whole  population  raised 
their  hands  and  arms  as  if  to  seize  the  promised  land.  They 
cast  themselves  on  the  ground  and  kicked  each  other,  so  as 
to  snatch  a  lottery-ticket,  with  its  conditional  promise  of 
ten  or  two  hundred  francs  gain.  What  joyous  excitement 
among  men,  women,  boys,  rich  and  poor,  needy  and  com- 
fortably off!  What  an  irresistible  rush,  that  from  holy  fear 
respected  the  sorcerer's  car  ;  they  made  a  triumph  for  him 


96  THE  LAND  OF  COCKA  YNE 

of  glorious  shouts  from  one  end  of  Toledo  to  the  other ! 
Bur  when  he  had  thrown  ten  thousand  tickets  to  the 
crowd  he  disappeared,  no  one  knew  where  or  how. 

Antonio  Amati  met  Margherita  the  maid  on  the  staircase 
as  she  was  going  in,  too,  rather  tired.  Brusquely,  as  if  he 
would  have  preferred  not  to  speak,  perhaps,  he  asked  her  : 

'  How  is  your  mistress  ?' 

'  She  is  better,'  the  old  domestic  said  in  a  low  voice. 
'  Why  have  you  not  been  to  see  her,  sir  ?' 

'  I  have  a  lot  to  do,'  the  doctor  muttered,  without,  how- 
ever, knocking  at  his  door. 

'  That  is  true ;  but  you  are  so  kind,  sir.' 

'  And  then  there  was  no  need  of  me,'  he  added  in  a  hesi- 
tating tone. 

'  Who  can  tell  ?'  Margherita  retorted  in  a  still  lower  and 
mysterious  voice.  '  Why  don't  you  come  in  now,  sir  ?' 

'  I  will  come,'  he  said,  with  his  head  down,  as  if  he  was 
giving  in  to  a  superior  will. 

She  put  a  key  in  the  lock  and  opened  it,  going  before 
the  doctor  into  the  quiet  house,  right  on  to  the  drawing- 
room,  and  he,  though  accustomed  to  keep  down  his  own 
impressions,  felt  at  once  the  cold  silence  and  emptiness  of 
the  big  room.  He  found  the  girl  in  black  before  him, 
smiling  vaguely,  holding  out  her  hand — a  long,  cold,  tiny 
one,  which  he  kept  a  minute  in  his,  more  as  a  doctor  than 
a  friend. 

'  Are  you  quite  well  again  ?' 

He  spoke  in  a  low  voice,  feeling  the  oppressive  sur- 
roundings. 

'  Not  altogether,'  she  said  in  her  clear,  tired  voice.  '  I 
had  another  fainting-fit  one  night ;  but  very  short — at  least, 
I  think  so.' 

'  Did  no  one  come  to  your  help  ?'  he  said  regretfully. 

'  No  ;  no  one  knew  about  it ;  it  was  at  night,  in  my  own 
room.  ...  It  doesn't  matter,'  she  added,  with  a  slight  smile. 

'  Why  did  you  not  go  to  the  country  ?' 

'  My  father  hates  the  country,1  she  said.  '  I  will  not 
leave  him  here  alone.' 

'  But  why  do  you  not  go  out  ?  It  is  carnival  to-day ; 
why  did  you  not  go  to  see  it  ?  Do  you  want  to  die  of 
melancholy  ?' 

'  Signora  Fragala  did  ask  me,  but  I  hardly  know  her.     I 


CARNIVAL  AT  NAPLES  97 

think  I  would  have  had  to  wear  a  mask.    My  father  does  not 
like  such  things  ;  he  is  right.' 

She  spoke  in  a  gentle,  pretty  voice,  with  a  tired  sound  in 
it.  Amati,  who  had  been  working  all  that  day  by  sick-beds 
while  others  enjoyed  the  carnival,  felt  rested  by  that 
harmonious  voice  and  the  tired,  delicate  calmness  of  the 
young  girl.  They  were  alone,  facing  each  other — around 
them  was  a  great  silence  ;  they  hardly  looked  at  each  other, 
but  they  spoke  as  if  their  souls  had  long  lived  together,  in 
joy  and  sorrow. 

'  Where  were  you  a  little  ago  ?'  Antonio  Amati  asked 
brusquely. 

'  I  was  in  the  chapel,'  Bianca  Maria  answered,  taking  no 
offence  at  the  question. 

'  Do  you  pray  a  great  deal  ?' 

'  Not  enough,'  she  replied,  raising  her  eyes  heavenwards. 

'  Why  do  you  pray  so  much  ?' 

'  I  must  do  it.' 

« You  don't  sin,'  the  unbeliever  muttered,  trying  to  make 
a  joke  of  it. 

'  One  never  knows,'  she  said  gravely.  '  One  must  pray 
for  those  that  don't  pray  themselves.' 

So  saying,  she  gave  him  a  passing  glance.  He  bent  his 
head. 

*  You  spend  too  many  hours  in  the  cold  church.  It  will 
do  you  harm.' 

'  I  don't  think  so  ;  and,  then,  what  does  it  matter  ?' 

'  Don't  say  that,'  interrupting  her  quickly. 

'  Few  things  can  hurt  me,'  she  replied  in  a  tone  he  under- 
stood and  did  not  want  to  inquire  into. 

'  Let  us  go  and  see  the  carnival  from  Signora  Fragala's 
windows.  She  asked  me,  too ;'  and  he  got  up  promptly  to 
carry  her  off. 

'  Let  us  stay  here,'  Bianca  gently  retorted.  '  Here  at 
least  there  is  peace.  Don't  you  think  this  calm  and  silence 
good  for  one,  too  ?' 

'  You  are  right,'  Amati  owned,  sitting  down  again  quite 
subdued. 

'  My  father  has  gone  out  with  his  friends  to  see  the 
carnival,'  she  went  on  quietly.  '  Everyone  in  the  palace  is 
out  on  the  balconies  that  look  on  Toledo  ;  no  noise  reaches 
here,  you  see.' 

They  looked  at  each  other  frankly.     That  strange  hour 

7 


98  THE  LAND  OF  COCKA  YNE 

of  unconsciousness,  when  he  saved  her,  and  she  knew  he 
was  saving  her,  had  set  up  something  like  an  inward  life 
between  them.  What  she  felt  was  a  humble  need  of  pro- 
tection, help,  and  counsel ;  his  feeling  was  a  very  tender  pity. 
He  could  not  keep  back  a  question  that  rose  to  his  mind. 

'  Is  it  true  you  wish  to  be  a  nun  ?'  he  asked  in  rather  a 
choked  voice. 

'  I  would  like  it,'  she  said  simply. 

'  Why  should  you  ?' 

'  Just  because,'  she  replied  with  a  woman's  favourite 
answer. 

'  Why  should  you  be  a  nun  ?  No  one  wants  to  be  a 
nun  nowadays.  Why  should  you  do  it  ?' 

'  Because,  if  there  is  one  single  person  in  the  world  that 
should  go  into  a  convent,  it  is  I  ;  because  I  have  neither 
desires,  nor  hopes,  nor  anything  before  me.  As  that  is  so, 
you  see,  I  must  at  least  have  prayer  across  this  void  desert 
and  the  desolation  that  comes  before  death.' 

'  Don't  say  that — don't  say  it !'  he  implored,  as  if  for 
the  first  time  fatality  had  breathed  on  his  energy  and 
destroyed  it. 


CHAPTER  VI 

DONNA  CATERINA  AND  DONNA  CONCETTA 

THE  two  sisters,  Donnas  Caterina  and  Concetta,  were 
sitting  opposite  each  other  at  the  dinner-table.  They  were 
eating  silently,  with  their  eyes  down ;  and  occasionally  they 
bent  down  to  wipe  their  lips  on  a  corner  of  the  tablecloth 
that  was  all  marked  with  bluish  wine.  A  large  deep-rimmed 
dish  stood  on  the  table  between  the  two,  full  of  macaroni 
cooked  in  oil,  salted  anchovies,  and  garlic,  all  fried  lightly  in 
an  earthen  pan  and  thrown  over  the  boiling  paste  ;  the  two 
women  plunged  their  forks  now  and  then  into  the  shiny  oily 
macaroni,  put  some  in  their  plates,  and  began  to  eat  again. 
There  was  a  big  loaf  of  white  underbaked  bread,  too — the 
tortano  :  they  broke  off  bits  with  their  hands  to  eat  the 
macaroni  with.  A  greeny-blue  glass  bottle  full  of  reddish 
wine,  that  made  bluish  reflections,  stood  on  the  tablecloth  ; 
big  glasses,  and  a  salt-cellar,  also  of  glass — nothing  else. 
The  sisters  used  leaden  forks,  and  coarse  knives  with  black 
handles  ;  they  sometimes  broke  off  a  bit  of  bread  and  dipped 
it  in  the  fried  oil  at  the  bottom  of  the  dish.  Caterina,  who 
was  the  roughest  and  saw  fewest  people — she  lived  furtively 
almost — put  her  bread  into  the  macaroni  dressing  with  her 
fingers ;  Concetta,  who  was  more  refined,  from  always 
going  about  and  seeing  people,  put  the  bread  neatly  on  her 
fork  to  dip  it  in  the  garlic,  and  nibbled  at  it  after  examining 
it.  At  one  point,  indeed,  Concetta,  finding  a  burnt  bit  of 
garlic,  put  it  aside  with  a  frown.  Otherwise  the  sisters  were 
exactly  alike  in  gestures,  way  of  speaking,  and  style  of 
dress,  though  not  so  much  so  in  features.  Both  had  their 
hair  dressed  by  the  same  woman  at  two  sous  each  :  it  was 
drawn  up  to  the  top  of  the  head,  the  coil  fastened  by  big 
sham  tortoiseshell  pins,  and  the  fringe  slightly  powdered 
over  the  forehead.  Both  wore  the  dress  of  well-to-do  Naples 
common  folk — a  petticoat  with  no  jacket,  merely  a  trimmed 
bodice,  that  keeps  the  Spanish  name  bascJiina;  and  they 

7—2 


ioo  THE  LAND  OF  COCKA  YNE 

never  went  without  a  thick  gold  chain  round  the  neck — it 
was  the  sign  of  their  great  power — and  they  wore  high  felt 
boots,  with  noisy  wooden  heels.  It  being  dinner-hour, 
they  had  left  their  usual  work — a  great  coverlet  of  calico, 
pink  one  side  and  green  the  other,  stuffed  with  cotton-wool 
— stretched  over  a  big  loom,  where  they  stitched  at  it  in 
wheels,  stars,  and  lozenges,  working  quickly,  one  on  each 
side  of  it,  their  heads  down  and  noses  on  the  pattern,  pulling 
the  needle  out  and  in  monotonously.  The  loom  was  pushed 
into  a  corner  ;  the  displaced  chairs  were  noticeable.  Now 
a  little  servant  of  fourteen  came  in,  red-haired,  white-faced, 
and  marked  with  freckles,  carrying  the  second  course — a 
bit  of  Basilicata  cheese,  like  a  dry  cream  cheese,  called 
firovola,  and  two  big  sticks  of  celery.  She  glanced  at  Donna 
Caterina  to  know  what  to  do  with  the  macaroni  left  in  the 
dish. 

'  Keep  two  bits  for  Menichella,'  said  the  holder  of  the 
small  game,  as  she  cut  a  big  slice  of  cheese. 

'  Yes,  ma'am,'  the  girl  said  as  she  went  out. 

Menichella  was  a  poor  old  thing  of  sixty  ;  her  son,  in  the 
Municipal  Guard,  had  been  killed  in  a  fight  with  Camorrists 
in  Pignasecca  Square  by  a  revolver-shot  in  the  stomach. 
She  lived  on  alms,  and  every  Friday  arrived  at  the  Esposito 
sisters'  house,  where  she  got  a  hot  dish,  half  a  loaf  of  bread, 
and  some  scraps.  The  Espositos  did  this  out  of  devotion 
to  our  lovely  Lady  of  Sorrows,  whose  day  is  Friday.  On 
Wednesday  they  gave  the  same  alms  to  a  blind  beggar 
called  Guarattelle,  because  for  many  years  he  kept  a  puppet- 
show  ;  this  charity  they  dedicated  to  the  Virgin  of  the 
Carmine,  Wednesday  being  her  day.  On  Monday,  too, 
they  fed  a  deserted  boy  of  ten,  that  the  whole  Rosariello  di 
Porta  Medina  Road  were  taken  up  about  and  fed,  while  the 
Esposito  sisters  helped  him  that  one  day  for  the  sake  of 
souls  in  Purgatory,  their  day  being  Monday.  A  beggar 
seldom  knocked  at  their  door  any  day  without  getting  some- 
thing. '  Do  it  for  St.  Joseph  ;  his  day  has  come  round.' 
'  The  Holy  Trinity  be  praised !  to-day  is  Sunday ;  give 
alms.'  Something  to  eat,  a  glass  of  wine,  some  scraps, 
beggars  always  carried  off — money  never.  The  sisters  had 
too  great  a  respect  for  sous  to  give  them  away.  It  was 
better  charity,  they  explained,  to  give  food,  than  encourage 
vice  by  giving  money. 

The  beggars  stayed  on  the  landing ;  the  sisters  never  let 


DONNA  CATERINA  AND  DONNA  CONCETTA      101 

them  in,  fearing  always  for  the  valuables  in  the  house ;  they 
used  to  carry  out  the  dish  of  macaroni,  vegetables,  or  salad. 
Sometimes  the  beggar  ate  it  on  the  stairs,  muttering  bless- 
ings. They  had  now  eaten  the  smoked  cheese  and  bread, 
slowly,  moving  their  jaws  rather  voluptuously,  tearing  the 
celery  off  in  strips,  and  munching  it  noisily,  like  fruit,  to 
take  the  taste  of  oil  out  of  their  mouths.  When  they  were 
done,  they  kept  still  for  a  little,  gazing  at  the  blue  stains  on 
the  tablecloth,  with  their  hands  in  their  laps,  silently  digest- 
ing and  making  long  mental  calculations,  as  women  of 
business.  The  servant-girl,  Peppina,  carried  off  everything 
in  a  trice ;  the  clatter  of  her  old  shoes  was  heard  in  the 
kitchen  next  door,  as  she  went  backwards  and  forwards  to 
wash  a  few  plates,  stopping  now  and  then  to  turn  her 
macaroni  in  the  pan ;  she  had  set  it  to  fry  again,  seeing  it 
was  cold. 

Now  the  sisters  got  up,  shook  the  crumbs  out  of  their 
laps,  and  went  to  take  their  place  at  the  loom  again, 
bending  over  it,  the  right  hand,  covered  with  rings,  rising 
methodically,  the  left  held  under  the  loom,  to  stitch  through. 
There  was  a  ring  at  the  bell ;  the  sisters  glanced  at  each 
other,  and  quickly  took  up  their  work.  Besides  what  they 
earned  from  it,  it  served  as  a  screen,  morally  and  physically. 

Two  girls,  dressmakers,  came  in,  pushing  each  other 
forward.  The  first,  the  bolder,  was  Antonietta,  who  worked 
with  a  dressmaker  in  Santa  Chiara  Street,  the  same  that 
went  to  buy  lunch  for  Nannina  and  herself  at  the  wine- 
seller's  opposite  the  lottery  office.  Both  of  them  were, 
wretchedly  dressed,  in  poor  woollen  skirts,  a  gaudy  but 
shabby  jacket  of  another  colour,  and  a  little  black  shawl, 
which  they  liked  to  let  slip  down  on  their  arms,  to  show 
their  bust ;  a  bunch  of  red  ribbon  was  tied  at  the  neck. 
Nannina,  the  smallest,  was  a  relation  of  the  Espositos ; 
she  had  a  holy  terror  of  her  aunts,  with  their  money 
and  jewels,  for  they  always  received  her  with  pensive 
and  intentional  coldness.  Still,  they  let  her  kiss  their 
hands. 

The  two  girls  were  still  standing  near  the  loom,  looking 
on  at  this  alert  industry  as  if  they  were  put  out. 

1  Have  you  not  gone  to  work  to-day  ?'  Donna  Caterina 
asked  Nannina. 

4 1  have  been  at  it,'  the  girl  at  once  volubly  answered, 
being  prodded  by  Antonietta's  elbow.  4  But  our  mistress 


102  THE  LAND  OF  COCK  A  YNE 

sent  us  to  buy  some  things  near  here,  and,  as  this  friend  of 
mine  wants  to  ask  a  favour  from  you,  we  came  .  .  .' 

'  Who  do  you  want  this  favour  from  ?'  said  Donna 
Concetta,  raising  her  head  from  her  work. 

'  From  you,  aunt,'  stammered  the  niece. 

'  You  don't  say  so !'  her  aunt  exclaimed,  in  an  ironical 
tone,  smiling  and  shaking  her  head. 

The  girls  said  nothing ;  they  looked  at  each  other :  from 
the  start  the  thing  was  going  badly. 

Caterina,  as  she  took  no  interest  in  the  subject  now,  cut 
the  tacking  with  a  pair  of  scissors,  where  it  had  been  already 
stitched,  which  covered  her  maroon  bodice  with  white 
threads. 

'  Have  you  lost  your  tongues  ?  What  is  it  about  ?' 
Donna  Concetta  asked,  laughing. 

'  Well,  now  I  will  tell  you,  ma'am,'  the  blonde  began, 
biting  her  lips  to  make  them  red.  '  I  would  like  a  new 
dress  for  Easter,  a  pair  of  boots,  and  cotton  to  make 
three  or  four  chemises.  If  I  was  frugal,  and  made  them 
myself,  after  my  day's  work  is  done,  forty  francs  would  do. 
I  have  not  got  it ;  it  would  take  a  year  to  save  it.  Knowing 
you  are  good  and  kind  to  poor  folk,  I  had  an  idea  you 
might  lend  me  these  forty  francs.' 

'  It  was  not  a  good  idea  of  yours,'  said  the  money-lender 
freezingly. 

'  Why  ?  I  can  pay  off  the  debt  at  so  much  a  week.  I 
earn  twenty-five  sous  a  day ;  I  don't  owe  a  penny  to 
anyone.  Ask  Nannina  ;  she  is  my  guarantee.' 

'  Nannina  ought  to  find  a  security  for  herself,'  Donna 
Concetta  grumbled.  '  But  why  do  you  need  this  dress  ? 
Is  what  you  have  on  not  enough  ?  If  one  has  no  money, 
get  no  dresses.  When  my  sister  and  I  had  no  means,  we 
got  no  clothes.  You  are  all  mad,  you  girls,  nowadays !' 

'  Aunt,  aunt,  do  her  this  favour ;  she  has  a  lover,  and  she 
is  ashamed  to  go  ill-dressed,'  the  niece  begged  for  her  friend. 

'  I  have  had  a  lover  too,'  Donna  Concetta  answered  ;  '  he 
was  not  ashamed  when  I  was  ill-dressed.' 

'  Men  nowadays  are  quite  different,'  Antonietta  mur- 
mured. '  So  do  me  this  favour.' 

'  I  don't  know  you,  my  dear.' 

'I  work  for  Cristina  Gagliardi,  at  No.  18,  Santa  Chiara, 
the  first-floor.  1  live  at  No.  3,  Strettola  di  Porto  ;  you  can 
make  inquiries.1 


DONNA  CATERINA  AND  DONNA  CONCEIT  A     103 

Silence  followed,  and  the  girls  again  gave  each  other  an 
alarmed  look. 

'  At  most — at  most,'  said  Donna  Concetta,  looking  up,  '  I 
can  give  you  stuff  to  make  a  dress  on  credit,  and  cotton  for 
the  chemises.  ...  I  will  ask  a  merchant  that  knows  me — a 
good  man ;  but  you  will  pay  dearer  for  your  clothes.' 

'  No  matter,  it  doesn't  matter,'  Antonietta  quickly  inter- 
rupted; 'do  so.' 

'What  colour  is  the  stuff  to  be?'  Donna  Concetta  asked 
maternally. 

'  Navy  blue  or  bottle  green  ;  I  like  navy  blue  best.' 

'  It  will  suit  you  best — navy  blue ;  you  look  well  in  it,' 
said  Nannina,  in  an  important  wray. 

'  It  does  not  discolour  so  easily,'  Donna  Concetta  settled 
it  by  saying.  '  How  many  yards  do  you  need  ?' 

The  girl  counted  to  herself,  moved  her  fingers  as  if  she 
was  measuring,  looked  at  her  figure,  and  counted  over 
again. 

'  Ten  metres — yes,  that  would  be  enough.' 

'  Ten  metres  ;  Jesus  !  so  you  want  to  be  in  the  fashion.' 

'  Donna  Concetta,  be  forbearing,'  Antonietta  answered 
smilingly. 

4  Very  good — very  good ;  for  each  chemise  four  metres  is 
needed — sixteen  in  all.' 

'  And  the  shoes  ?'  the  girl  asked  hesitatingly. 

'  I  know  no  shoemaker,  my  dear.' 

'  You  will  give  me  the  rest  of  the  forty  francs  in  money  ?' 
the  sewing  girl  risked  saying. 

'  Listen,  my  dear,'  said  Donna  Concetta :  '  I  am  going 
to-morrow,  or  Saturday,  to  the  dressmaker's  to  ask  if  you 
really  get  over  a  franc  a  day,  and  if  you  have  taken  any 
money  in  advance.  Then  I'll  arrange  with  the  dressmaker 
that,  instead  of  giving  you  your  whole  pay  for  the  week,  she 
keeps  back  two  francs  for  me  as  interest  on  the  forty  francs.' 

'Two  francs?'  the  girl  cried  out,  alarmed  at  this  long 
story. 

'  Of  course.  I  should  get  four,  a  sou  a  week  for  each 
franc  ;  but  you  are  a  poor  girl,  and  I  really  wish  to  help 
you.  The  dressmaker  gives  me  the  two  francs  for  interest. 
You  pay  off  the  rest  of  the  debt  as  it  suits  you,  five  or 
three  francs  at  a  time.  Do  you  understand  ?' 

« Yes,  ma'am,  yes,'  the  terrified  girl  cried  out. 

'  The  quicker  you  pay  the  better  for  you,  and  it  will  suit 


J04  THE  LAND  OF  COCKA  YNE 

me.  However,  I  warn  you,  if  you  were  to  get  the  dress- 
maker to  pay  you  in  advance,  go  away,  or  play  any  trick  of 
the  kind,  I'll  come  to  you,  my  dear,  and  let  you  see  who 
Concetta  Esposito  is.  I  would  think  nothing  of  going  to  the 
galleys  for  my  heart's  blood.  .  .  .  Have  I  made  it  plain  ?' 

'  Yes,  ma'am,  yes,'  Antonietta  stammered,  with  tears  in 
her  eyes. 

'  There  is  still  time  for  you  not  to  do  it,'  Donna  Concetta 
ended  up  icily,  bending  down  again  to  stitch  the  coverlet. 

'No,  no!'  the  girl  screamed  out — 'whatever  you  like. 
Promise  me  to  come  to-morrow  to  Santa  Chiara  Road.' 

'We  see  each  other  to-morrow,'  said  Donna  Concetta, 
taking  leave  of  her. 

'  You  will  bring  the  things  and  the  money  ?' 

'  I  must  think  over  it.' 

'  Good-bye,  aunt,'  Nannina  murmured,  pale  and  more 
frightened  than  her  friend. 

« The  Virgin  go  with  you,'  answered  the  Espositos  in  a 
chorus,  beginning  to  work  again. 

The  girls  went  off  quite  silently,  with  their  heads  down, 
not  able  to  speak  or  smile.  A  woman  coming  up,  hurriedly, 
knocked  against  them ;  and  with  a  quick  '  Excuse  me  !'  she 
went  to  ring  at  the  Espositos'  door.  It  was  Carmela,  the 
cigar-girl,  with  her  big,  sorrowful  eyes  and  worn  face. 
Before  going  into  the  house  she  sighed  deeply,  and  her  face 
flushed. 

'  May  I  come  in  ?'  she  said  from  the  lobby,  in  a  weak  voice. 

'  Come  in,'  was  the  answer  from  inside.  '  Is  it  you,  good 
soul  ?'  said  Concetta,  on  recognising  her  ;  '  are  you  really 
come  to  give  me  back  that  money  ?  your  conscience  pricked 
you  at  last  ?  Give  it  over  here.' 

'  You  are  joking,  Donna  Concetta,'  said  the  poor  thing, 
with  a  pale  smile.  '  If  I  had  thirty-four  francs,  I  would 
give  as  many  leaps  in  the  air.' 

'  It  is  thirty-seven  and  a  half  francs,  with  last  week's 
interest,'  the  money-lender  coldly  corrected  her. 

'  As  you  like  :  who  is  denying  it  ?  As  you  say,  it  is  thirty- 
seven  and  a  half,  I  am  sure  you  are  right.' 

'  You  have  brought  the  interest,  at  least  ?' 

'  Nothing,  nothing,'  the  girl  said  desperately,  holding 
down  her  head.  '  I  am  eaten  up  by  misery  :  I  have  got  to 
earning  a  franc  and  a  half  a  day  ;  now  I  might  live  like  a 
lady,  but ' 


DONNA  CATERINA  AND  DONNA   CONCETTA     105 

'  Why  do  you  waste  your  money  ?'  asked  Donna  Concetta, 
giving  in  to  her  fad  of  preaching  prudence  to  her  debtors. 
'  You  are  a  beast,  that  is  what  you  are !' 

'  But  why,'  Carmela  cried  out  desperately — '  why  should  I 
not  give  a  bit  of  bread  to  my  old  mother  ?  When  my  sister 
is  dying  of  hunger  with  her  three  children,  and  one  of  them 
wasting  away  piteously,  can  I  refuse  her  half  a  franc  ? 
When  my  brother-in-law,  Gaetano,  has  nothing  to  smoke, 
for  all  his  vices,  should  I  deny  him  a  few  sous  ?  With  what 
heart  could  I  do  it  ?' 

'It  is  Raffaele  that  sucks  you  out — it  is  Raffaele!'  the 
money-lender  sang  out,  threading  a  needle  with  red  cotton. 

'  What  about  that  ?'  the  girl  cried  out,  throwing  out  her 
arms ;  '  he  was  born  to  be  a  gentleman.  In  the  meanwhile, 
if  I  don't  pay  the  landlord  on  Monday,  he  will  turn  me  out. 
I  owe  him  thirty  francs :  but  I  might  at  least  give  him  ten  ! 
If  you  would  just  do  me  this  charity  !' 

'  You  are  mad,  my  dear.' 

'  Donna  Concetta,  what  are  ten  francs  to  you  ?  I'll  give 
them  back,  you  know  :  I  have  never  taken  a  farthing  from 
anyone.  Don't  have  me  thrown  on  the  streets,  ma'am.  Do 
it  for  the  sake  of  your  dead  in  paradise  !' 

'  No,  no,  no  !'  sang  out  the  seamstress. 

'  Listen,  look  here,'  the  other  went  on  sorrowfully :  '  these 
earrings  I  am  wearing  my  godmother  paid  seventeen  francs 
for ;  I  give  them  to  you — I  have  nothing  else.  You  will  give 
me  them  back  when  I  give  you  the  ten  francs.' 

'  I  never  take  a  pawn,'  Donna  Concetta  replied,  glancing 
at  the  earrings. 

'  But  it  is  not  a  pawn ;  it  is  a  favour  you  are  doing  me. 
If  I  were  to  pawn  it,  I  would  get  five  or  six  francs  ;  they 
would  take  the  interest  beforehand,  with  the  money  for  the 
ticket,  the  box,  and  the  witness,  and  only  three  or  four  francs 
would  be  left.  Do  it  only  this  once,  ma'am — the  Virgin 
from  heaven  preserve  you  !'  She  convulsively  took  out  her 
rather  worn  earrings,  rubbed  them  with  a  corner  of  her  apron, 
and  put  them  gently  on  the  coverlet,  still  looking  at  them 
earnestly,  taking  leave  of  them.  Donna  Concetta  took  them 
with  a  scornful  grimace,  and  glanced  at  her  sister,  who  just 
raised  her  head  and  signed  'Yes,'  with  a  wink.  Donna 
Concetta  got  up  stiffly  ;  without  saying  anything,  she  carried 
the  earrings  into  the  next  room,  where  the  sisters  slept ;  a 
noise  of  keys  in  locks  was  heard,  an  opening  and  shutting 


io5  THE  LAND  OF  COCKA  YNE 

of  strong  boxes,  with  silent  intervals.  Then  Donna  Concetta 
came  in  again.  She  carried  two  rolls  of  yellow  paper  in  her 
hand. 

'  They  are  sous  :  count  them,'  she  said  shortly,  putting 
them  down  before  Carmela. 

'  It  does  not  matter — they  are  sure  to  be  right,'  said  the 
poor  little  thing,  trembling  with  emotion.  '  The  Eternal 
Father  should  give  it  back  to  you  in  health,  the  kindness 
you  do  me.' 

'  Very  good,'  Donna  Concetta  finished  up  with,  sitting 
down  again  to  work.  '  But  I  warn  you  I'll  sell  the  earrings 
if  you  don't  pay.' 

'  Never  fear,'  Carmela  murmured  as  she  went  oft. 

For  a  little  the  sisters  were  alone,  stitching. 

'  The  earrings  are  worth  twelve  francs  in  gold,'  said 
Caterina.  She  had  sharp  ears. 

'  Yes,'  said  Concetta ;  '  but  Carmela  will  pay ;  she  is  a 
good  girl.' 

Again  they  heard  the  bell  tinkle. 

'  It  sounds  like  the  midwife's  bell,'  Caterina  remarked. 

A  dragging  noise  was  heard,  the  sound  of  a  box  put  down 
in  the  corner  of  the  stair,  and  Michele,  the  shoeblack,  came 
in  with  his  hip  up,  as  if  he  was  still  carrying  his  block.  He 
greeted  them  in  the  Spanish  style,  saying, '  La  vostra  buona 
grazia '  (I  am  your  humble  servant),  whilst  the  thousand 
wrinkles  on  his  rickety  boy's  face,  grown  old,  seemed  to 
breathe  out  malice.  The  sisters  looked  patiently  at  him, 
waiting  till  he  spoke. 

'  Gaetano  Galiero,  the  glove-cutter,  sends  me ' 

'  Fine  honest  fellow  he  is  !'  exclaimed  Donna  Concetta, 
putting  a  strip  of  paper  in  her  thimble — it  had  got  too  large. 

'  If  you  don't  make  people  speak,  you  can  never  get  to 
understand  each  other,'  the  hunchback  rejoined  philosophi- 
cally. '  Gaetano  is  under  great  obligations  to  you ;  but  you 
are  a  fine  woman,  not  wanting  in  judgment,  and  you  will 
forgive  his  failings.  What  does  not  happen  in  a  year  comes 
the  day  you  least  expect  it.  Gaetano  is  here  with  the  money.' 

'  Yes,  yes,'  the  sisters  said,  grinning. 

'  You  will  see  him  afterwards.  But  I  have  come  to  speak 
of  an  affair  of  my  own.  I,  thank  God,  work  at  a  better 
trade  than  Gaetano  does ;  I  stand  beside  the  Caf6  de  Angelis 
in  Carita  Square.  I  don't  say  it  out  of  boasting,  but  I  polish 
the  shoes  of  the  best  nobility  in  Naples.  I  can  earn  what  I 


DONNA  CATERINA  AND  DONNA  CONCETTA     107 

like ;  I  laugh  at  ill  fortune.  When  it  rains,  I  stand  under 
the  archway  of  the  caf6  door  ;  the  dirtier  it  is  in  the  streets, 
the  more  shoes  I  polish.  My  good  woman,  if  I  had  a  clear 
head,  I  would  be  a  gentleman  now.  But  now,  to  carry  out 
a  big  affair  that  may  bring  me  my  carriage,  I  need  a  little 
money  ;  and  as  you  oblige  people  that  way,  I  have  come  to 
propose  the  business  to  you.  Forty  francs  would  do  for 
me  ;  I  would  pay  it  off  by  three  francs  a  week  until  I  have 
managed  the  combination;  for  then  I  will  give  you  back 
capital,  interest,  and  a  handsome  present.' 

'  Don't  put  yourself  about,'  said  Donna  Concetta  ironically. 
'  If  you  won't  lend  me  money,  who  do  you  lend  to  ?' 
the  hunchback  asked  audaciously.  '  If  I  stand  all  day  in 
front  of  the  cafe,  I  earn  two  francs,  do  you  know.  Not 
even  a  barber's  lad  can  say  as  much.  So  that  stand  is  my 
fortune,  my  shop ;  if  I  go  away  from  it,  I  don't  earn  a  half- 
penny, so  I  can't  run  away.  Do  you  see  ?  Ask  the  coffee- 
house-keeper who  Michele  is.  Your  money  is  safe  in  my 
hands.  You  will  hear  all  about  me  from  the  caf6-owner.' 

'  If  he  guarantees  you,  I'll  give  you  the  money,'  Donna 
Concetta  said  at  once. 

'  In  that  case,  he  would  give  it  himself,'  the  hunchback 
objected.  '  No,  no,  Michele  has  no  need  of  a  guarantee. 
Come  to-morrow,  Saturday,  at  nine,  to  the  cafe-owner ;  you 
will  hear  what  he  says ;  you  will  willingly  give  me  sixty 
instead  of  forty  francs.  I  am  an  honest  man  ;  I  am  subject 
to  public  scrutiny.' 

'  Good  ;  we  see  each  other  to-morrow.  You  know  what 
the  interest  is  ?'  said  Donna  Concetta. 

'  Whatever  you  like,'  the  hunchback  gallantly  answered  ; 
'  you  can  have  a  cup  of  coffee,  too,  and  a  roll  inside  :  I  am 
master  at  the  coffee-house  !  Can  I  do  anything  for  you  ?' 

'  We  wish  for  your  prayers  always,'  the  two  women  said 
in  a  low  tone,  as  he  was  going  away.  After  working  a 
little,  Caterina  observed  : 

'  You  said  yes  to  him  too  soon.' 

'  I  will  make  the  coffee-house-keeper  guarantee  him.  He 
is  a  hunchback,  too  ;  that  brings  luck,'  Donna  Concetta 
replied. 

'  If  it  brings  luck,  it  ought  to  bring  an  end  to  this  hard 
life  of  ours,'  Caterina  began  again.  She  liked  to  complain 
of  her  luck. 

'Oh,'  the  other  sighed,  '  we  have  no  man  to  give  us  a 


io8  THE  LAND  OF  COCKA  YNE 

helping  hand,  ever ;  so  we  have  to  do  justice  for  ourselves 
always.  Ciccillo  and  Alfonso  are  simpletons.  It  is  no 
use.  .  .  .' 

'  What  can  we  do  ?'  sighed  the  other. 

The  two  sisters  gave  up  working,  let  their  hands  fall  idle 
on  the  red  coverlet,  and  began  to  think  of  their  secret 
sorrow — the  tormenting  pain  they  confessed  to  no  one — of 
their  betrothed  lovers,  two  good  workmen,  brothers,  at  the 
arsenal,  Jannacone  by  name,  who  loved  them,  but  would 
not  marry  them,  either  of  the  two,  because  of  their  trade. 
The  struggle  between  love  and  money  had  gone  on  for  three 
years,  but  Ciccillo  and  Alfonso  Jannacone  would  not  hear 
of  marrying  a  gambler  or  a  money  -  lender ;  the  whole 
arsenal  would  have  taunted  them.  They  were  good  work- 
men, rather  simple,  very  silent,  who  did  not  spend  their 
day's  wages  ;  they  had  some  savings,  and  came  to  spend 
the  evening  with  the  two  sisters.  Obstinate  on  that  idea, 
one  of  the  few  that  got  into  their  heads,  neither  love  nor 
avarice  could  overcome  it.  Several  times  the  sisters,  being 
keen  on  gain  and  bitterly  offended  at  that  refusal,  had 
quarrelled  with  their  lovers  and  chased  them  out  of  the 
house  ;  but  only  for  a  short  time :  peace  was  made,  Concetta 
and  Caterina  naturally  promising  to  give  over  their  business. 
The  women  must  have  made  a  lot  of  money,  but  they  never 
spoke  of  it,  and,  in  spite  of  their  love  for  Alfonso  and 
Ciccillo  Jannacone,  they  themselves  put  off  the  marriages  so 
as  to  gain  still  more  money,  not  knowing  how  to  break 
through  that  round  of  money-lending  business.  They  did 
not  wish  to  give  up  old  loans,  and  could  not  resist  making 
new  ones  ;  they  did  not  understand  why  their  lovers  were 
so  ashamed,  and  complained  of  it  as  an  injustice.  The 
sisters  thought  themselves  humane  to  lend  money  at  usury; 
to  give  lottery  tickets  at  a  sou  or  two  seemed  an  act  of 
charity  to  them,  because  the  Naples  poor — skinned  and 
flayed  as  they  were  when  they  took  money  from  Concetta 
to  give  it  to  Caterina  and  the  Government — thanked  and 
blessed  them  with  tears.  When  they  were  quite  alone,  in 
expansive  moments,  the  two  complained  of  their  fate ; 
anyone  else  but  the  Jannacone  brothers  would  have  been 
happy  enough  to  have  such  industrious,  hard-working  wives 
with  dowries.  But  the  workmen  would  not  given  in  ;  they 
persisted  they  would  never  marry  unless  that  way  of  gain- 
ing money  was  given  up.  Ciccillo  especially,  Caterina's 


DONNA  CATERINA  AND  DONNA  CONCETTA     109 

betrothed,  was  hard   as  a  stone ;    indeed,  he  said  to  her 
sometimes  :  '  Caterina,  one  day  or  other  you'll  go  to  prison.' 

'  I'll  pay  for  bail  and  get  out.  Then  the  lawyer  will  get 
me  off.' 

She  knew  the  law  and  its  intrigues. 

'  If  you  go  to  prison,  you  don't  see  my  face  again,'  Ciccillo 
retorted,  lighting  his  cigar. 

Yes,  when  they  were  alone  the  sisters  despaired.  But 
love  of  money  was  so  strong,  it  made  them  put  off  the 
time  for  the  double  marriage.  The  two  workmen  waited 
patiently,  slowly  buying  furniture  with  their  savings  to  set 
up  house  together,  as  they  never  left  each  other. 

'  Wait  till  Easter,'  the  sisters  said,  thinking  of  ending  up 
all  their  affairs  by  then. 

'  Good ;  at  Easter,'  the  brothers  agreed. 

'  We  will  be  ready  by  September,'  said  they  in  April,  being 
more  than  ever  involved  in  a  network  of  sordid  business. 

'  In  September,  then,'  the  workmen  complied. 

Always  when  they  were  alone  the  women  complained  of 
being  badly  treated  by  Fate,  and  of  being  misunderstood 
by  the  men  they  loved,  ending  up  with  :  '  Ciccillo  and 
Alfonso  are  fools.' 

But  they  were  not  long  alone  that  day,  either.  The 
wretched  trade  went  on  till  evening.  There  came  a  painter 
of  saints,  so  far  an  artist  that  he  painted  the  face,  hands, 
and  feet  of  all  the  wooden  and  stucco  saints  in  Naples  and 
its  neighbourhood's  thousand  churches  :  a  sickly  man,  who 
asked  for  money,  and  only  got  it  on  condition  he  brought  a 
statuette  of  the  Immaculate  Conception  in  blue,  covered  with 
stars,  next  day,  that  Madonna  being  Concetta  the  money- 
lender's patron.  Annarella,  Carmela's  sister,  came  in  to  ask 
for  a  loan,  being  desperate :  '  just  two  francs  for  the  day,  just 
as  a  charity.'  She  wanted  to  make  a  little  broth  for  her  sick 
child.  A  horrible  scene  followed :  the  women  would  not 
believe  her  ;  she  just  wanted  to  fool  them  again,  for  Gaetano 
and  she  had  a  big  debt,  and  were  not  ashamed  to  take  poor 
folk's  blood  and  not  give  it  back.  Annarella  screamed, 
wept,  and  cried  out  that  she  would  go  and  get  her  baby,  all 
burning  with  fever,  to  show  to  them.  A  stone  would  pity 
him.  Then  she  sobbed  out  that  they  said  what  was  quite 
true ;  but  to  pity  the  poor  little  thing,  who  was  not  to 
blame,  and  now  that  he  was  weaned,  she  could  take  another 
half-day  service,  which  the  Virgin  would  help  her  to  find. 


i io  THE  LAND  OF  COCKAYNE 

At  last,  as  Concetta  felt  bored,  to  get  rid  of  the  crying  and 
weeping  she  gave  her  the  two  francs,  cursing  and  taking  her 
oath  they  were  the  last,  as  true  as  it  was  Friday  in  March — 
perhaps  the  day  our  Lord  died,  as  it  is  not  known  what  Friday 
in  March  Jesus  died  on.  Other  people,  either  embarrassed, 
furious,  or  sorrowful,  came  to  pay  up  old  interest,  to  offer 
goods  in  pledge,  or  ask  for  more  money.  The  debtors  went 
on  from  humility  to  bitterness,  from  threats  to  beseeching, 
from  solemn  promises  to  mean  tricks.  Concetta  continued 
working  opposite  her  sister  through  the  disputes,  quarrels, 
and  threats  till  evening  came.  She  never  got  tired,  and 
always  had  an  effective  retort  ready  or  some  lucid  remark, 
finding  out  a  good  or  bad  payer  at  once.  Only  for  one 
neatly-dressed,  discreet  caller,  shaved  like  a  good  class  of 
servant,  she  got  up  and  went  into  the  next  room,  where 
they  chattered  in  a  low  tone  for  some  time.  The  usual  noise 
of  keys  creaking  in  the  locks,  and  opening  and  shutting  of 
strong  boxes,  was  heard ;  the  servant  went  out,  still  looking 
reserved,  followed  by  Concetta. 

'  Is  that  the  Marquis  di  Formosa's  steward  ?'  Caterina 
asked  when  he  had  gone. 

'  Yes,  it  is,'  said  Concetta,  without  adding  more. 

That  hard,  fatiguing  Friday  came  to  an  end.  Now  it  was 
getting  dark  the  sisters  had  given  up  stitching  the  coverlet. 
Caterina,  for  Saturday,  her  great  day,  got  ready  some  thick 
registers,  written  in  shapeless  characters,  all  ciphers,  which 
she  understood  very  well.  She  leant  over  it  under  the  oil- 
lamp,  thinking  whilst  her  lips  moved  ;  and  Concetta,  seeing 
her  deep  in  her  important  weekly  work,  kept  silence  out  of 
respect  to  that  sagacious  preparation,  feeling  sure  that  next 
day  money  would  be  flowing  in  to  them. 


CHAPTER  VII 

DON    GENNARO    PARASCANDOLO'S    BUSINESS 

WITH  the  odorous  smoke  of  a  Tocos  cigarette  filling  the 
little  room,  Don  Gennaro  Parascandolo  was  deeply  wrapped 
up  in  the  study  of  his  little  pocket-book,  turning  over  the 
pages  of  a  ledger,  and  comparing  the  long  rows  of  figures  in 
it  with  the  dark,  enigmatic  ciphers  in  the  note-book  ;  then 
he  took  the  pen  and  wrote  something  occasionally — one 
word  or  a  figure — on  the  full  side  of  the  ledger. 

He  was  working  very  placidly  in  that  little  room  of  his 
flat  in  San  Giacomo  Street,  opposite  the  door  of  the 
Exchange.  He  had  rented  it  from  time  immemorial,  and  he 
called  it  the  study  ;  there  he  began,  unravelled,  and  finished 
all  his  business,  with  a  discretion  and  secrecy  he  kept  up 
even  with  his  wife.  She  was  far  off,  isolated  for  whole 
days  in  that  sad,  solemn,  splendid  suite  of  rooms  in  the 
Rossi  Palace.  When  it  was  said  Don  Gennaro  Parascan- 
dolo was  at  his  study,  all  was  said.  Those  who  said  it  and 
those  who  heard  it  felt  respectful  terror  ;  a  fearful  vision  of 
riches  always  increasing,  a  magical  flow  of  money  running 
to  money  by  enchantment,  rose  before  them.  The  study 
was  the  place  where  Don  Gennaro  Parascandolo,  strong, 
wise,  audacious,  and  cold  in  his  audacity,  made  his  fortune 
grow  by  leaps  and  bounds.  It  was  composed  of  two  rooms  : 
one  big  one,  with  two  balconies,  was  quite  full  of  valuable 
things  gathered  in  a  queer  way — pictures  by  good  artists, 
foreign  furniture,  gilt-bronze  candelabra,  curious  antique 
pendulums,  rolls  of  carpet  and  of  linen-cloth,  terra-cotta 
statuettes,  even  a  trophy  of  antique  and  modern  arms. 

It  was  quite  a  museum,  that  room.  Salvatore,  Don 
Gennaro's  confidential  servant,  spent  half  the  day  trying  to 
keep  it  clean,  and  it  required  the  greatest  care  not  to  spoil 
or  break  anything.  Occasionally,  some  rarity  left  the 
museum,  either  sold  advantageously,  exchanged  for  another, 
or  given  away  in  a  fit  of  calculated  generosity.  But  the 


ii2  THE  LAND  OF  COCKAYNE 

empty  place  was  soon  filled  by  a  new  article,  or  by  some  of 
the  things  heaped  on  each  other  in  the  strange  museum. 

When  Don  Gennaro  was  alone,  he  sometimes  opened  his 
writing-room  door  and  stood  on  the  threshold,  smoking  his 
everlasting  cigarette,  to  give  a  look  over  what  he  called  his 
omnibus.  But  he  did  not  venture  to  go  in,  the  accumula- 
tion was  so  great.  The  other  room  was  prettily  enough 
furnished  with  the  respectable  pleasant  luxury  of  easy-chairs, 
sofas,  small  tables  with  smoking  accessories,  and  a  writing- 
desk  that  seemed  placed  there  purposely  to  make  the  name 
'  study '  appropriate.  The  hangings  were  bright,  but  not 
gaudy ;  on  the  desk  were  dainty  knickknacks  that  Don 
Gennaro  Parascandolo  often  played  with.  Whoever  came 
in  there  felt  calmed  ;  even  if  he  had  an  incurable  sorrow  in 
his  mind,  he  was  reconciled  to  existence  for  a  time.  Don 
Gennaro  Parascandolo's  own  genial  face,  clouded  sometimes 
by  melancholy,  his  lively,  frank  manner,  managed  to  give  a 
benignant  look  to  the  surroundings  that  overcame  all  fears, 
difficulties,  and  prejudices,  and  gave  a  weak,  morally 
defenceless  guest  into  the  host's  hands,  vanquished  before- 
hand. The  whole  round  of  Don  Gennaro  Parascandolo's 
business  was  regulated  by  the  minute  hieroglyphics  in  his 
pocket-book,  and  a  ledger  thickly  written  in  also  with 
names,  ciphers,  and  remarks. 

Whenever  a  caller  was  announced,  Don  Gennaro,  with- 
out hurrying,  shut  up  the  ledger  in  the  safe,  and  put  the 
note-book  back  in  his  pocket ;  every  trace  of  business  dis- 
appeared. An  inkstand  of  gilt  bronze  and  rock  crystal, 
shaped  like  a  jockey's  cap,  with  racing  accessories,  made  a 
good  show  on  the  desk,  as  well  as  a  silver  paper-weight  like 
a  book,  with  five  seals  made  of  old  guineas,  an  ash-tray 
shaped  like  a  woman's  shoe,  and  a  long,  carved  ivory 
Japanese  wand  that  Don  Gennaro  trifled  with. 

So  that  Friday  in  March,  after  breakfast,  he  went  on 
smoking  his  Tocos  cigarette,  gazing  at  the  smoke ;  but 
when  the  faithful  Salvatore,  clean-shaven  and  in  black,  like 
a  high-class  servant,  a  discreet,  silent  fellow,  came  to  say 
Signor  Cesare  Fragala  wished  to  come  in,  Don  Gennaro 
quickly  shut  up  the  ledger  and  put  the  note-book  in  his 
pocket. 

4  With  your  permission,'  said  Cesare  Fragala,  coming  in 
smiling. 

'  My  honoured  patron,  how  are  the  wife  and  child  ?' 


DON  GENNARO  PARASCANDOL&S  BUSINESS    113 

'  Very  well  indeed,  Don  Gennaro.  They  are  Fragalas,  a 
strong  house,  with  no  bad  luck.  You  keep  well,  do  you  not  ?' 

'  Quite  well ;  but  Naples  bores  me.  Cesare,  this  is  a 
beggarly  country.  In  a  week  I  go  off  to  Nice  and  Monte 
Carlo  ;  after  that  I  go  to  Paris.' 

'  Do  you  play  at  Monte  Carlo  ?'  Fragala  asked,  with  a 
scrutinizing  look. 

'  Yes,  a  little.  I  often  win  ;  I  have  luck  ;  I  am  learning 
to  play.' 

'  How  will  that  serve  you  ?' 

'  It  is  good  to  know  everything,'  Parascandolo  answered 
modestly.  '  Have  you  never  been  there  ?' 

'  No,'  said  Cesare  thoughtfully,  '  I  have  a  wife  and 
daughter ;  still,  it  is  a  fine  thing  to  gain  twenty-five  or  a 
hundred  thousand  francs  in  an  evening !'  One  could  read 
in  his  eyes,  that  filled  at  once  with  melancholy  avarice,  a 
great  passion  for  heavy,  immediate  gains,  depending  on 
luck,  and  for  the  most  part  unlawful. 

'  What  would  you  do  with  it  ?'  asked  Don  Gennaro,  taking 
another  cigarette,  and  offering  Cesare  one  from  an  elegant 
engraved-silver  Russian  cigar-case. 

'  What  would  I  do  with  it  ?  First  of  all  I  would  let  fifty 
thousand  melt  away  to  enjoy  life  a  little  with  my  friends. 
I  am  not  selfish,  and  fifty  thousand  would  do  to  open  a  shop 
with  in  San  Ferdinando  Square.  I  will  never  gain  it  in  the 
San  Spirito  shop,'  Cesare  ended  up  low-spiritedly. 

'  Still,  in  the  carnival  you  must  have  made  great  profits,' 
said  Don  Gennaro  slowly,  shaking  off  his  cigar-ash. 

'  Yes,  yes,  enough !  but  Monte  Carlo,  or  something  else, 
is  needed ;  if  not,  one  must  vegetate,  and  Agnesina's  dowry 
won't  be  ready.  Then  I  am  always  pushed  to  it — so  many 
calls.  .  .  .  Why,  yesterday  I  should  have  given  you  back 
those  five  hundred  francs  you  lent  me  without  security — 
you  know  I  am  always  punctual — but  I  could  not.' 

'  For  one  day  it  does  not  matter,'  Don  Gennaro  said 
coldly,  setting  his  face  like  a  stone  the  moment  Cesare  spoke 
of  the  debt,  gazing  at  his  cigar-smoke  as  if  not  to  look  his 
friend  in  the  face. 

'  But  I  can't  even  pay  you  to-day,'  said  Cesare  quickly, 
as  if  he  wanted  to  get  rid  of  his  worry  all  at  once.  '  I  have 
had  to  take  a  lot  of  sugar  out  of  bond,  and  then ' 

Don  Gennaro,  quite  indifferent  to  all  this  chatter,  said 
not  a  word. 

8 


114  THE  LAND  OF  COCKAYNE 

'  Be  neighbourly,  and  complete  the  favour.  I  have  a 
little  bill  due  to-morrow,'  Fragala  said,  passing  through  a 
sharp  momentary  agony ;  '  it  is  five  hundred  francs,  and  I 
have  not  got  it.  You  might  lend  them  to  me,  and  I  will 
give  you  a  thousand  francs  next  Saturday  ...  it  is  a  great 
favour  .  .  .  and  you  can  be  sure  of  my  being  punctual.' 

'  I  can't,'  Don  Gennaro  said  icily. 

'  Why,  you  have  the  money,'  Cesare  cried  out  ingenuously. 

'  Of  course  ;  but  I  can't  lend  it.' 

'  Then,  you  think  I  am  not  solvent  ?' 

'  Not  at  all ;  it  is  to  carry  out  a  rule.  With  intimate 
friends  and  relations,  people  like  you,  I  always  lend  five 
hundred  francs ;  often,  nearly  always,  I  get  it  back  again. 
Then  I  willingly  lend  it  a  second  time ;  but  once  it  has  not 
been  paid  I  never  lend  any  more,  so  I  can  only  lose  five 
hundred  francs.' 

'  But  I  am  to  give  you  back  a  thousand,'  said  the  other 
in  alarm. 

'  He  who  can't  give  back  five  hundred  is  very  unlikely  to 
give  back  a  thousand.  A  man  that  fails  to  keep  his  word 
once  may  do  it  again,'  said  Don  Gennaro  ponderously. 

'  Still,  I  did  not  believe  you  would  refuse  such  a  favour 
to  a  friend,'  Cesare  muttered.  '  You  put  me  into  great 
embarrassment . ' 

'  I  think  I  do  well  not  to  give  you  that  money,'  said 
Parascandolo,  opening  a  gold  matchbox  like  Dellacha's 
paper  ones,  with  figure-painting  on  it.  '  I  think  you  are 
going  a  bad  road  ;  you  frequent  very  queer  company.  .  .  .' 

'  I  have  done  some  idiotic  things,  I  allow,'  said  Cesare, 
with  his  big-boy's  honesty ;  '  but  I  did  it  with  good  intentions. 
Besides,'  he  added,  as  if  speaking  to  himself,  '  that  Pasqua- 
lino  De  Feo  is  always  needing  some  hundred  francs.  He 
is  a  poor  man,  with  no  profession  nor  trade.  The  spirits 
torment  him — beat  him  at  night.  I  have  to  have  Masses 
said  and  prayers  to  appease  them ;  if  not,  they  drag  him  to 
death.  If  I  have  thrown  away  some  hundred  francs,  I  had 
my  reasons.  This  business  with  spirits  is  important !  You 
are  clever,  and  have  travelled  a  lot ;  but  if  you  knew  all, 
you  would  see  it  is  worth  knowing  about.' 

'  It  may  be,'  nodded  Don  Gennaro  assentingly ;  '  but  you 
are  going  a  bad  road.' 

'  No,  no  !'  cried  out  Cesare  ;  '  something  must  be  settled. 
Either  in  or  out.  Perhaps  we  will  get  it  this  week — that  is 


DON  GENNARO  PARASCANDOLO'S  BUSINESS   115 

to  say,  to-morrow ;  or  it  may  be  necessary  to  sacrifice  some 
more,  next  week,  and  then  win.  Really,  you  should  oblige 
me,'  he  added,  going  back  to  his  trouble. 

'  I  can't,'  retorted  Don  Gennaro. 

'  As  a  fact,  I  am  an  honest  trader :  anyone  would  do  busi- 
ness with  me  !'  Cesare  called  out,  beginning  to  get  angry. 

'  If  it  is  business,  that  is  another  thing,'  said  Don  Gennaro, 
giving  in  suddenly. 

'  Well,  let  us  treat  it  as  business,'  said  Cesare,  calming 
down  at  once. 

Then  Don  Gennaro  quietly  opened  the  safe  and  drew  out 
a  blank  bill,  of  a  thousand  francs'  value.  Taking  a  finely- 
carved  wooden  pen,  with  a  gold  nib,  he  wrote  the  sum  in 
figures  and  words,  and  asked,  without  raising  his  head : 

'  To  fall  due  in  a  month  ?' 

'  Yes,  in  a  month,'  agreed  Fragala.  Don  Gennaro  handed 
the  promissory  note  to  him.  It  was  headed  '  Domenico 
Mazzocchi.'  '  Domenico  Mazzocchi — who  is  that  ?'  asked 
Fragala,  astounded. 

'  He  is  the  capitalist  I  work  for,'  Parascandola  answered 
icily.  Seeing  that  after  Fragala  signed  he  was  going  to  put 
down  his  dwelling-house,  he  stopped  him  warningly.  '  Put 
down  the  address  of  the  shop.' 

'  Why  so  ?' 

'  In  business  and  commercial  affairs  it  is  better  to  take 
action  at  the  firm's  address.' 

Fragala  felt  a  chill  down  his  back. 

'  There  will  be  no  need,'  he  thought  it  necessary  to  say, 
to  reassure  himself.  He  gave  back  the  promissory  note  to 
Don  Gennaro  Parascandolo,  who  read  it  over  carefully, 
twice  ;  then  he  opened  another  safe  and  took  out  bank-notes, 
and  counted  three  hundred  and  eighty  francs  twice  over  :  he 
handed  them  to  Fragala,  saying : 

'  Three  hundred  and  eighty  francs.  Count  your  money 
over  again.' 

'  Three  hundred  and  eighty  only  ?'  asked  the  other,  again 
astounded. 

'Twelve  per  cent,  interest  is  taken  off,'  explained  Don 
Gennaro. 

'  Is  that  by  the  year  ?'  asked  Fragala  stupidly. 

'  No  ;  by  the  month.' 

Then  there  was  silence.  While  Fragala  was  counting 
the  money  mechanically,  he  thought,  but  dared  not  say  to 

8—2 


Ii6  THE  LAND  OF  COCKAYNE 

Parascandolo,  that  the  interest  had  been  calculated  on  the 
first  five  hundred  francs,  too,  that  he,  Don  Gennaro,  had 
lent  him,  and  not  the  capitalist  Mazzocchi.  He  said  no- 
thing about  it,  though  ;  indeed,  in  the  innocency  of  his  soul, 
he  remarked,  as  he  got  up  to  go  away : 

'  Thank  you !' 

'  Why  thank  me  ?  It  is  business.  Only,  think  of  when  it 
falls  due.  Mazzocchi  stands  no  nonsense — he  is  an  ugly  sort.' 

'Never  fear,' said  Fragala,  with  a  sickly  smile.  After 
taking  leave,  he  went  off,  with  a  colourless  face  and  bitter 
mouth,  as  if  he  had  been  chewing  aloes.  At  once  Don 
Gennaro  set  himself  to  his  accounts.  But  it  was  only  for  a 
few  minutes,  as  Salvatore  came  to  say  Ambrogio  Marzano, 
the  lawyer,  was  there,  with  another  gentleman,  wanting  to 
come  in.  He  expected  them,  evidently,  as  he  frowned 
slightly  and  looked  stiff.  Marzano  came  in,  with  his  usual 
gentle  smile — he  was  a  lively,  excitable  old  fellow  ;  the  one 
that  looked  put  out  was  his  companion,  a  gentleman  of  about 
forty,  fat  but  pale,  with  very  clear  eyes  that  rolled  vaguely 
and  sadly. 

The  greetings  were  short.  For  a  fortnight  Marzano  and 
Baron  Lamarra  had  kept  coming  to  San  Giacomo  Street  to 
see  Don  Gennaro,  on  money  business.  They  talked  it  over, 
made  suggestions,  accepted  and  then  refused,  then  started 
the  arguments  over  again.  Baron  Lamarra,  son  of  a 
sculptor,  who  had  become  a  contractor  by  dint  of  chiselling 
in  the  open  air,  and  rich  by  dint  of  laying  one  sou  on 
another,  had  left  his  son  a  lot  of  money,  though  he  was  now 
trying  for  a  loan  of  three  thousand  francs.  He  kept  up  his 
beggar-on-horseback  airs  at  first,  but  as  the  days  went  on, 
and  difficulties  came  in  the  way,  he  dropped  them,  and  did 
nothing  but  play  with  the  charms  on  his  watch-chain  ;  his 
conceited  blue  eyes  got  to  have  a  despairing  expression, 
which  Don  Gennaro  studied  sagaciously — perhaps  it  was  for 
his  benefit  that  he  looked  so  cold.  Only  Don  Ambrogio 
Marzano  went  on  smiling,  obstinate  in  his  good  nature. 

'  The  Baron  is  rather  anxious  to  finish  up  the  business 
now  we  have  talked  it  over  for  days,'  said  the  little  old  man, 
trying  to  encourage  his  client. 

'  Let  us  finish  it,  then,'  Don  Gennaro  answered,  without 
lifting  his  eyes. 

'  You  have  not  thought  out  a  better  arrangement  ?'  Baron 
Lamarra  murmured. 


DON  GENNARO  PARASCANDOLO'S  BUSINESS   117 

'  No,  I  have  not,'  said  Don  Gennaro. 

The  two  looked  at  each  other,  hesitating;  the  Baron 
made  the  lawyer  an  energetic  sign  to  go  on. 

'  How  would  it  be  ?'  Marzano  asked. 

'  Here  it  is.  My-  capitalist,  Ascanio  Sogliano,  has  no 
funds ;  but  he  can  dispose  of  about  forty  dozen  Chiavari 
chairs  at  six  francs  each,  seventy-two  francs  the  dozen,  over 
two  thousand  seven  hundred  francs  in  all.  He  would  give 
these  goods,  which  are  easy  to  dispose  of,  on  a  three  months' 
promissory  note,  with  the  Baron  and  the  Baroness  Lamarra's 
signatures,  each  bound  for  all,  with  the  usual  interest,  in 
advance,  of  three  per  cent. ;  three  times  three,  nine — that 
is  to  say,  ninety  francs  a  month ;  three  times  ninety,  two 
hundred  and  seventy  francs  for  three  months.' 

'  And  you  said  there  would  be  a  buyer  for  these  Chiavari 
chairs,  did  you  not  ?'  Marzano  replied,  keeping  up  his  frank 
tone. 

'  Exactly  so,'  said  Don  Gennaro,  still  very  cold. 

'Buyer  at  how  much?'  asked  Baron  Lamarra  rather 
anxiously,  knowing  the  answer  quite  well,  but  almost  hoping 
for  a  different  one. 

'  I  told  you  :  at  two  thousand  francs.' 

The  lawyer  shook  his  head ;  the  Baron  fumed  with  rage. 

'  It  is  too  great  a  loss,  far  too  great !'  he  cried  out ;  '  and, 
then,  my  wife's  signature,  too!' 

'  Excuse  me,  Baron,'  Don  Gennaro  remarked,  '  you  seem 
to  be  under  a  wrong  impression.  I  am  doing  you  a  favour, 
finding  a  tradesman  and  a  buyer.  I  am  not  taken  up  about 
this  business.  I  often  have  as  good  aristocratic  names  as 
yours  on  bills,  I  can  tell  you.  This  is  to  clear  up  the  posi- 
tion. You  come  here  shouting  as  if  you  were  in  brigands' 
hands  and  your  ears  were  being  cut  off.  Here  we  don't 
cut  off  ears.  If  the  affair  does  not  suit  you,  let  it  go.  It 
is  indifferent  to  me,  I  repeat.' 

As  a  sign  of  the  greatest  indifference,  he  lighted  a  Tocos 
cigarette,  and  began  smoking,  looking  up  to  the  ceiling. 
Baron  Lamarra,  whose  face  got  flabbier  and  more  unhealthy- 
looking  in  that  annoying  struggle,  was  disturbed.  Silence 
followed.  Marzano  shook  his  head  gently,  as  if  he  was 
lamenting  over  human  weakness ;  he  gazed  at  the  silver 
top  of  his  cane,  without  saying  a  word.  The  Baron  ran  his 
fingers  through  his  black  locks  flecked  with  white  ;  then  he 
made  up  his  mind,  and  drew  out  a  thick  black  pocket-book, 


ii8  THE  LAND  OF  COCKAYNE 

took  out  a  paper,  and  put  it  on  the  table  opposite  Don 
Gennaro. 

'  It  is  settled,'  he  said,  in  a  choked  voice.  '  Here  is  the 
promissory  note.' 

Don  Gennaro  only  fluttered  his  eyelids  in  assent.  He 
opened  the  note  and  looked  at  it  a  long  time,  the  figures, 
dates,  and  signatures,  reading  in  a  low  voice,  '  Maddalena 
Lamarra  —  Annibale  Lamarra.  All  right,'  he  ended  up 
aloud,  casting  a  scrutinizing  glance  at  the  Baron,  whose 
face  got  livid  from  suppressed  rage  or  some  other  feeling. 
'  Do  you  want  to  see  the  goods  ?'  he  then  remarked  punc- 
tiliously. 

'  What  does  it  matter  to  me  ?'  the  Baron  said  sulkily, 
shrugging  his  shoulders.  '  Give  me  the  money  to  use.' 

Don  Gennaro  nodded  assent.  As  usual,  he  opened  the 
middle  drawer,  shut  up  the  promissory  note  in  it,  opened 
the  side  drawer,  took  out  bank-notes,  and  counted  them 
methodically. 

'  Count  your  money  over,'  he  said,  handing  the  bundle  to 
the  Baron,  who  had  watched  the  appearance  of  bank-notes 
with  a  flashing  eye. 

But  he  did  not  count ;  he  put  the  notes  into  his  pocket- 
book,  and,  without  saying  a  word,  rose  to  go  away. 

Marzano  vaguely  stammered  some  words  of  thanks  and 
farewell,  but  the  Baron  was  already  on  the  stairs,  and  the  old 
man  ran  after  him,  not  to  let  him  elude  him.  When  he  was 
alone,  Don  Gennaro  Parascandolo  opened  the  drawer  again 
and  took  out  the  Lamarra  promissory  note ;  he  studied  the 
signatures  a  long  time,  saying  over  the  syllables  ironically  : 
'  Maddalena  Lamarra  .  . .  bound  for  whole  amount . . . ;  Anni- 
bale Lamarra  for  himself  and  the  conjugal  authorization.'  He 
ended  up  with  a  smile,  and  pushed  it  into  the  drawer  again. 

Ninette  Costa  had  come  in  without  being  announced,  and 
the  dark,  lively,  elegant  stockbroker,  in  a  suit  of  English 
check,  a  flower  in  his  buttonhole,  ebony  stick  in  hand,  and 
big  iron  ring  on  his  little  finger  as  a  seal,  seemed  the  pattern 
of  happy  youth.  He  stretched  himself  in  an  arm-chair, 
threw  his  leg  over,  and  lit  a  cigarette,  humming. 

'  Good  settling-day  Monday  was,  eh  ?'  Don  Gennaro  asked. 

'  It  was  bad — bad  !'  sang  out  Ninetto  Costa. 

« You  don't  seem  much  put  out.  It  will  be  bad  for  your 
clients  then,  and  not  for  you,'  said  Parascandolo. 

'  It  is  bad  for  me ;  I  have  thirty  to  forty  thousand  francs 


DON  GENNARO  PARASCANDOLO  S  BUSINESS    119 

at  stake,'  said  the  stockbroker,  beating  his  trouser-leg  with 
his  stick  in  an  elegant  way. 

'  And  how  are  you  to  pay  ?' 

'  I  will  pay,'  the  other  ended  up  by  saying,  in  a  vague  way. 

'  You  have  had  several  bad  settling-days,  it  seems  to  me.' 

'  So,  so.  It  is  Lillina  that  takes  away  everything,'  he 
muttered,  with  a  not  perfectly  sincere  gesture  of  regret. 

'  Lillina  ?     She  says  "  No,"  '  remarked  Don  Gennaro. 

'  Did  she  tell  you  so  ?  She  is  the  greatest  liar  among 
women !  You  can't  think  what  a  liar  she  is,  Gennaro !' 
and  he  cried  out  more  against  her,  rather  in  a  sham  rage. 
'  Have  you  got  these  jewels  ?'  he  added  anxiously,  though 
he  tried  to  seem  indifferent. 

'  Yes.     Are  they  for  Lillina  ?' 

'  Yes — that  is  to  say,  I  am  not  certain  ;  she  is  too  great  a 
liar !  Besides,  I  have  someone  else  in  my  eye.' 

'  You  are  a  devil,  Ninetto !'  Don  Gennaro  said  laughingly. 

From  the  same  drawer  from  which  he  had  previously 
taken  the  money,  Parascandolo  took  out  a  leather  case 
and  opened  it.  The  jewels  twinkled  on  the  white  velvet : 
there  were  a  pair  of  solitaire  earrings,  a  row  of  diamonds,  a 
bracelet,  and  an  ornament  for  the  hair.  Ninetto  Costa  looked 
at  them,  beating  his  lips  with  the  knob  of  his  stick.  He  went 
further  off,  to  judge  them  better.  He  did  this  very  grace- 
fully ;  but  a  twitching  of  the  muscles  now  and  then  made 
his  smile  unpleasant. 

'They  are  fine,  eh  ?'  he  asked  Parascandolo. 

'  I  think  so,'  said  the  other  modestly. 

'  You  would  give  them  ?     You  are  a  man  of  taste.' 

'  I  would  give  them — according  to  the  woman.  Not  to 
Lillina.' 

'  I  don't  know  if  I  will  give  them  to  her — I  don't  know,' 
Costa  burst  out  again  hurriedly.  '  You  think,'  he  added 
timidly — '  you  think  they  are  worth  twenty  thousand  francs?' 

'  It  is  not  what  I  believe ;  Don  Domenico  Mazzocchi, 
who  sold  them  to  you,  thinks  they  are.  I  don't  know 
about  them.  Besides,  you  can  get  them  valued.  Re- 
member, they  will  ask  two  per  cent,  for  the  valuation.' 

He  said  all  this  in  such  a  cold,  disdainful  way  that 
Ninetto  Costa  tried  to  interrupt  him  more  than  once,  with- 
out managing  it. 

'  Are  you  mad  ?  What  valuation  ?  I  would  not  do  such 
a  thing,  with  you  and  your  friend  Mazzocchi.  To  take  so 


120  THE  LAND  OF  COCKAYNE 

much  trouble !     I   would   not   dream  of  it.     It  would   be 
offensive  to  a  friend — two  friends.' 

'  Have  you  noted  the  terms  of  payment  ?' 
'  Yes,  yes  !  at  three,  four,  five,  and  six  months — five 
thousand  francs  at  a  time,  with  a  consignment  on  my 
mother's  revenues,  and  all  the  necessary  papers.  All  is 
going  right.  Do  you  wish  nothing  on  the  Exchange  ?  I'll 
buy  for  you.' 

'  I  don't  do  business  ;  I  have  retired,'  said  Parascandolo, 
smiling  and  bowing,  as  Costa  went  off,  carrying  the  jewel- 
case. 

When  he  had  gone,  the  other,  being  now  alone,  looked  at 
the  clock.  It  was  getting  late.  San  Giacomo  Street  is 
dark  naturally,  and  already,  at  four  o'clock,  it  looked  as  if 
the  day  was  failing.  Don  Gennaro  was  thinking  whether  he 
had  given  an  appointment  to  anyone  else,  and  if  he  could  go 
away,  having  finished  his  day's  work,  one  of  those  hard- 
working Fridays  for  all  that  provide  money — bankers,  money- 
lenders, pawnbrokers.  No,  he  thought,  he  had  not  given 
an  appointment  to  anyone,  and  he  could  go  away.  He  felt 
sure  his  coachman  had  brought  round  his  carriage  to  take 
him  to  Carracciolo  Street.  But  once  more  the  faithful 
Salvatore  came  in  to  say  three  gentlemen  wished  to  come  in. 

'  Are  there  three  ?'  asked  Don  Gennaro,  pondering. 

'  Yes,  three.  .  .  .' 

'  Let  them  in,'  his  master  said,  recollecting. 

Dr.  Trifari  came  in,  fat,  thick,  red  of  beard  and  face, 
embarrassed  and  suspicious,  taking  off  the  high  hat  he 
always  wore,  like  all  provincials  settled  in  Naples.  Professor 
Colaneri  was  with  him  ;  he  had  a  false  look  behind  his  gold 
spectacles,  and  bowed  in  the  ecclesiastical  style.  A  student, 
a  fellow-countryman  of  Trifari's,  and  Colaneri's  pupil,  was 
the  third  one — a  youth  of  twenty-two,  with  sticking-out 
teeth,  a  tartan  necktie,  and  a  decidedly  silly  look.  The 
two,  while  keeping  an  eye  on  each  other,  glanced  now  at 
Don  Gennaro,  then  at  the  embarrassed  provincial  lad,  who 
seemed  not  to  know  what  to  do  with  his  teeth,  quite  unhappy 
at  not  being  able  to  shut  his  mouth.  There  was  a  curbed 
ferocity  in  Trifari's  suspiciousness — it  was  palpable  in  him 
morally  and  physically ;  while  Colaneri's  was  oblique,  sly, 
cold,  and  hypocritical.  The  student  looked  like  a  fly  between 
them — a  stupid  little  fly  held  between  two  spiders,  one 
cruel,  the  other  treacherous. 


DON  GENNARO  PARASCANDOLO' S  BUSINESS    121 

Don  Gennaro  looked  at  them  with  a  smile,  guessing  all 
that.  Only  to  look  at  the  wicked  intentness  of  Dr.  Trifari's 
eyes  on  the  shut  desk,  Professor  Colaneri's  humble  but 
dishonest  look,  the  student's  silliness — for  he  seemed  to  see 
nothing,  or  saw  and  heard  without  understanding — explained 
Salvatore's  hesitation.  But  Don  Gennaro  Parascandolo, 
who  loved  artistic  things,  had  taken  up  a  long  Japanese 
carved-ivory  scabbard,  and  half  drew  out,  as  if  by  accident, 
a  knife's  shining  blade.  It  was  a  book-cutter,  though  there 
was  not  a  shadow  of  a  book  on  the  desk.  With  a  click  he 
sheathed  it  and  laid  it  on  the  desk,  but  his  fingers  trifled 
with  it.  He  smiled,  smoking  his  everlasting  cigarette, 
without  offering  one,  however,  to  his  three  visitors. 

'So  we  have  come  on  that  business,  Signer  Parascan- 
dolo. What  has  been  done  ?'  Dr.  Trifari  questioned,  with 
a  sham  politeness  that  ill-covered  his  roughness. 

'  Yes.     What  do  you  refer  to  ?'  Parascandolo  said. 

'The  money — the  bank  bill,'  the  plethoric  doctor  burst  out. 

'  It  is  an  ordinary  affair  enough,'  remarked  Parascandolo 
with  an  easy  air. 

'  What  do  you  say  ?  With  three  signatures — mine, 
Professor  Colaneri's,  and  Signer  Rocco  Galasso's — you  call 
it  an  ordinary  affair  ?  Whose  signature  do  you  want — 
Rothschild's  ?' 

'  Certainly  I  would  prefer  Rothschild's  to  all  signatures,' 
was  said,  with  a  mocking  little  smile.  '  Business  is  business,' 
he  added  in  his  solemn  way. 

'  We  are  honest  men,  it  seems  to  me,'  Professor  Colaneri 
yelped  out. 

'  I  have  the  highest  respect  for  you,'  said  Parascandolo 
with  exaggerated  politeness.  '  But  signatories  must  be 
solvent ;  that  is  all.  I  have  made  inquiries  on  account  of 
my  principal,  Ascanio  Sogliano.  You  will  understand,  I 
must  prevent  him  making  any  loss,  as  I  make  use  of  his 
money.  Now,  Dr.  Trifari,  here  is  an  excellent  young 
fellow — he  will  become  a  light  in  the  scientific  world — but 
his  signature  is  not  good  for  a  thousand  francs,  nor  is 
Professor  Colaneri's.  .  .  .' 

'This  is  infamous!'  Dr.  Trifari  cried  out.  'I  did  not 
come  here  to  be  insulted,  by  Jove!' 

'  These  are  slanderous  statements  !'  shrieked  Colaneri  the 
hypocrite. 

'  Where  did  you  make  inquiries  ?'  Trifari  asked,  yelling. 


122  THE  LAND  OF  COCKAYNE 

1  In  your  own  neighbourhood,'  answered  Parascandolo 
coldly. 

'  Of  course,  in  my  own  neighbourhood.  ...  It  is  political 
hatreds  .  .  .  election  struggles !'  Colaneri  and  Trifari 
shouted  in  chorus. 

'  That  may  be,'  said  Parascandolo ;  '  I  cannot  know  about 
that,  and  it  does  not  matter  to  Sogliano.  So  there  remains 
this  worthy  youth  here,  Rocco  Galasso ;  he  is  solvent.  So, 
instead  of  three  thousand  francs,  Sogliano  will  give  a  thou- 
sand, with  your  three  signatures  as  a  precaution.' 

'  It  is  impossible  for  us  to  agree  to  that !'  Trifari  thun- 
dered, purple  with  rage. 

'  Impossible !'  shrieked  Colaneri,  quite  livid. 

'  As  you  like,'  said  Parascandolo,  getting  up  to  go  out. 

But  the  most  dumfounded  of  the  three  was  poor  Rocco 
Galasso,  the  student.  He  turned  his  stupefied  eyes  from 
Colaneri  to  Trifari  and  gasped,  as  if  his  saliva  choked  him. 
The  two  left  the  office  in  confusion,  without  saying  '  Good- 
bye," talking  to  each  other,  and  shoving  the  student  before 
them  like  a  silly  sheep.  Parascandolo  quietly  called  Salva- 
tore  to  brush  his  greatcoat.  It  was  done  silently,  while  he 
filled  his  case  with  cigarettes. 

All  at  once,  without  being  announced,  the  three  burst 
again  into  the  room,  looking  queer :  Colaneri  and  Trifari  as 
if  forcibly  restraining  their  rage,  and  Rocco  Galasso,  pale 
and  humiliated,  behind  them,  like  a  beaten  dog. 

'  We  are  to  do  the  business,'  Trifari  muttered,  as  if  he  was 
swallowing  the  wrong  way.  '  One  thousand  francs,  as  you 
said.' 

Professor  Colaneri  agreed.  Then  the  usual  scene  was 
repeated  :  The  money-lender  pulled  out  a  blank  promissory 
note  for  a  thousand  francs  from  the  drawer  and  put  it  before 
Rocco  Galasso,  who  dared  not  take  it,  but  went  looking 
Colaneri  and  Trifari  in  the  eyes  one  after  the  other.  The 
two,  as  if  they  were  putting  him  to  the  torture,  made  him 
sit  at  a  corner  of  the  desk,  and  bent  over,  one  at  each  side, 
to  give  him  directions,  and  they  dictated  the  formula  word 
by  word.  He  put  his  nose  down  on  the  paper,  being  short- 
sighted and  knowing  nothing  about  the  business,  never 
having  signed  a  promissory  note  before.  Then,  crushed 
down  by  the  two  leaning  on  his  shoulders,  he  got  confused 
and  frightened,  and  held  his  pen  up  hesitatingly.  The  work 
took  a  long  time.  The  poor  fellow  was  just  going  to  mis- 


DON  GENNARO  PARASCANDOLO'S  BUSINESS    123 

state  the  time  of  its  falling  due,  when  Trifari  was  down  on 
him  with  a  shout :  '  At  two  months  !' 

At  last  the  work  was  ended,  and  the  student's  forehead 
dropped  sweat  as  he  raised  it  that  cool  March  day.  Don 
Gennaro  in  the  meanwhile  pulled  money  out  of  his  drawer 
and  counted  it. 

'  Seven  hundred  and  sixty  francs,'  he  said,  holding  out  the 
bundle  of  notes  to  Rocco  Galasso.  '  Count  your  money.' 

But  the  latter  dared  not  take  it.  He  looked  again  at  his 
tutors.  Colaneri  put  out  his  fat,  cold  hand  and  pocketed  the 
money  quickly,  while  Trifari  glared  at  him. 

'You  take  the  interest  in  advance?'  asked  Trifari  with  a 
sneer. 

'  Yes,  in  advance.' 

'  Could  you  not  add  it  to  the  promissory  note?'  Colaneri 
retorted,  putting  his  hand  in  his  pocket  over  the  money. 

'  No,  I  cannot,'  said  Parascandolo  dryly,  getting  up  again. 

The  three  went  out  silently.  Colaneri  rushed  on  in  front ; 
Trifari  followed  precipitately,  forgetting  Rocco  Galasso,  who 
was  now  of  no  use,  while  his  greatest  torment  was  that 
Parascandolo  had  made  him  write  his  address  at  Tito  di 
Basilicata ;  and  the  thought  that  his  father  would  know 
about  it  one  day  or  other  brought  tears  to  his  eyes. 

In  spite  of  Don  Gennaro's  wish  to  go  out,  he  had  to  wait 
five  minutes  more.  A  little  old  woman,  neatly  dressed  in 
black,  a  lady's-maid,  had  arrived,  bringing  an  introductory 
note  from  Signora  Parascandolo.  Looking  around  her,  she 
spoke  to  Don  Gennaro  in  a  whisper,  and  he  listened  with  a 
fatherly,  amiable  smile.  Then  she  timidly  showed  him 
something  in  a  case,  wrapped  first  in  black  cloth  and  then 
paper,  which  he  would  not  even  look  at.  He  pushed  it 
away,  but  not  contemptuously.  Then,  after  a  few  words  to 
the  old  woman,  he  signed  to  her  to  keep  silence,  as  she 
wished  to  begin  her  speech  again,  and  he  went  to  the  desk, 
took  out  money,  counted  it,  and  handed  it  in  an  envelope  to 
her.  She  waited  to  thank  him,  but  he,  to  cut  her  short, 
asked : 

'  How  is  Lady  Bianca  Maria  ?' 

'  Not  very  well,'  the  old  woman  said,  with  a  sigh. 

In  a  few  minutes  the  victoria  bore  easy,  contented  Don 
Gennaro  Parascandolo  to  the  Carracciolo  promenade,  where 
all  his  debtors,  past,  present,  and  future,  greeted  him  with 
smiles  and  raised  hats ;  and  he  smiled  and  bowed  in  return. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

IN    DON    CRESCENZIO'S    LOTTERY-SHOP 

DONNA  BIANCA  MARIA  CAVALCANTI  read  that  letter  over 
eight  or  ten  times  before  putting  it  in  her  pocket.  She 
was  working  at  her  lace  alone  in  the  bare  large  room, 
thinking  over  what  was  in  it,  for  she  knew  the  words  by 
heart  already.  She  saw  it  before  her  eyes,  going  over  its 
meaning  in  her  mind.  So  the  slender  bobbins  slipped  from 
her  hands  while  she  dreamt. 

The  letter  was  honest  and  frank.  It  said  that,  as  a 
doctor  and  friend,  he  once  more  advised  her  to  leave  that 
lonely  old  house  where  she  just  vegetated.  He  begged  she 
would  deign  to  accept  a  humble,  plain  offer  of  hospitality  in 
the  country,  in  the  village  and  home  he  was  born  in,  where 
his  mother  lived  alone  piously.  Donna  Bianca  Maria 
Cavalcanti  should  not  despise  this  offer  so  frankly  made. 
She  could  go  down  there  with  Margherita.  The  air  was 
good,  the  country  around  fresh  and  green  ;  it  was  an  agree- 
able solitude.  Dr.  Amati  could  not  go  because  of  his  work ; 
but  his  mother  would  be  sure  to  be  very  fond  of  her.  She 
would  be  quite  cured  down  there  in  that  lifegiving,  bright 
air.  He  implored  her  tenderly  not  to  say  '  No,'  to  believe  in 
his  devotion.  He  could  not  hide  the  real  state  of  her  health 
from  her.  Travel  and  country  air  were  necessaries  of  life 
to  her. 

So  the  great  doctor  wrote  in  that  short,  precise  style  of 
his,  honest,  like  his  face  and  voice ;  a  deep,  sincere  vein  of 
feeling  ran  through  each  phrase.  Feeling  this,  Bianca 
Maria  shut  her  eyes  to  keep  down  her  emotion.  When 
Margherita  brought  her  the  letter,  she  guessed  at  once  who 
it  came  from  on  seeing  the  clear,  straight,  precise  writing. 
She  opened  it  quickly,  without  hesitation  or  false  modesty. 
After  reading  it,  a  country  landscape,  poor  and  humble,  but 
bright  and  perfumed  with  green,  rose  before  her  eyes  with 
the  sweetness  of  an  idyll ;  a  flow  of  heat  enlivened  the  slow 


IN  DON  CRESCENZIOS  LOTTERY-SHOP         125 

blood  in  her  veins  ;  a  desire  for  life  and  happiness  gnawed 
at  her  heart ;  a  first  rush  of  youthful  eagerness  came. 
Antonio  Amati's  letter,  read  so  often,  was  fixed  in  her 
mind.  As  she  thought  it  over  that  fresh  Friday  evening 
in  March,  the  blood  rushed  to  her  heart  and  her  eyes  filled 
with  tears. 

The  Marquis  di  Formosa  came  in  that  evening,  about 
eight  o'clock.  He  also  was  more  excited  than  usual,  with  a 
quiver  in  his  limbs  and  features,  which  he  got  every  week 
on  Friday  evening,  as  if  he  shortly  expected  a  great  sorrow 
or  a  great  joy.  But  his  daughter  took  no  heed  at  first. 
She  was  distrait ;  though  she  went  on  working  mechanically, 
the  good,  decided  words  of  the  letter  that  begged  her  to  save 
herself  buzzed  in  her  mind,  delightfully  disturbing. 

'  Well,  is  there  nothing  yet  ?'  asked  the  Marquis. 

'  What  are  you  asking  about  ?  I  do  not  understand,'  she 
said,  coming  back  to  herself. 

'  What  am  I  asking  about  ?  Why,  the  revelation  the 
spirit  is  to  make  to  you.  Perhaps  you  don't  wish  to  tell  it  ? 
\Vhy  not  ?  You  must  tell  me ;  I  expect  to  hear  it  from 
you.' 

'  Dear  father,  I  know  nothing  about  it,'  she  answered, 
growing  pale,  but  trying  to  keep  her  voice  steady.  '  I  will 
never  know  anything  of  what  you  imagine.' 

'  I  don't  imagine  !'  he  cried  out.  '  They  are  truths  and 
religious  mysteries.  Don  Pasqualino  is  a  pious  soul.  He 
sees.  You  could  see,  too,  if  you  liked,  but  you  don't  want  to. 
Tell  the  truth  :  you  sup  before  going  to  bed  ?' 

'  No,  I  do  not,'  she  said,  keeping  down  her  head,  resigned 
to  the  torture  of  the  inquiry,  touching  Amati's  letter  in  her 
pocket. 

'  A  full  body  is  impure ;  it  cannot  have  heavenly  inspira- 
tions,' he  said  in  a  mystical  way.  '  What  do  you  do  before 
sleeping  ?' 

'  I  pray.' 

'  Do  you  not  ask  for  this  favour  with  all  your  strength  ? 
Do  you  ask  for  it  ?' 

She  looked  at  her  father,  and  opened  her  mouth  to  say 
'  No/  She  did  not  utter  it ;  but  he  understood  her. 

'  It  is  natural  the  vision  does  not  come — quite  natural. 
Faith  is  needed,'  said  he,  with  deep  disdain.  «  But  what  do 
you  pray  for  ?  What  do  you  ask  for,  unloving  heart  ?' 

'  I  ask  for  peace,'  she  said  gravely,  waving  her  hand. 


126  THE  LAND  OF  COCKAYNE 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders  disdainfully. 

'  I  will  make  Don  Pasqualino  pray,'  he  added.  '  You 
will  get  the  vision,  whether  you  like  or  not ;  the  spirits  will 
insist  on  it.  They  command,  you  understand.  They  are 
masters  in  this  world  and  the  next.  You  will  have  the 
spirit  by  you  when  you  least  expect  it ;  you  will  see  it.  .  .  .' 

'  God  help  me  !'  said  she,  crossing  herself  with  an  uncon- 
trollable shiver. 

'  Are  you  afraid  ?'  he  asked  sneeringly,  no  longer,  in  his 
mad  excitement,  seeing  how  she  suffered. 

'  Oh  yes,  I  am,'  she  said  feebly,  as  if  she  were  fainting. 

She  clutched  Antonio  Amati's  honest,  affectionate  letter 
convulsively,  as  if  to  get  strength  from  it.  But  the  Marquis 
paid  no  more  heed  to  his  daughter.  He  had  rung  the  bell, 
and  Giovanni  came  in  in  his  old  livery.  He  looked  un- 
decidedly at  his  master  as  he  handed  him  his  hat  and  stick, 
as  if  he  were  alarmed  to  see  him  go  out  earlier  on  that 
than  on  other  Fridays.  But  what  he  dreaded  was  unavoid- 
able, because  the  Marquis  said  to  him,  '  Come  with  me,' 
going  towards  his  bedroom,  a  poor,  bare  room  like  the  rest 
of  the  house.  Giovanni  lighted  a  wretched  candle  to  hold 
their  conversation  by.  The  servant  respectfully  stood  right 
before  his  master,  who  kept  up  his  aristocratic  bearing  and 
natural  haughtiness,  which  even  vice  could  not  subdue. 

'Giovanni,  have  you  any  money?'  he  asked  in  a  lordly 
way. 

The  servant  bowed ;  he  did  not  dare  to  answer  '  No ' 
exactly,  so  he  said  nothing. 

'You  must  have  some,'  the  Marquis  went  on  rather 
sternly.  '  I  gave  it  to  you  two  weeks  ago.  Have  you 
spent  it  all  ?  You  waste  the  little  I  have  left.' 

'  My  lord,  last  Friday  you  took  it  almost  all.  We  must 
live.  You  would  not  like  her  ladyship  to  die  of  hunger,' 
said  Giovanni  in  a  complaining  voice. 

'  Very  good,  very  good  ;  I  understand,'  the  Marquis  inter- 
rupted, irritated,  but  concealing  his  rage.  '  I  need  at  least 
fifty  francs.  I  have  a  debt  of  honour  to  pay  this  evening. 
Then  to-morrow  evening ' — emphasizing  the  words — '  I  will 
give  it  to  you  back.  I  will  give  you  other  money,  too,  a 
lot  of  money,  so  that  you  will  not  accuse  me  of  letting  my 
daughter  die  of  hunger.' 

*  You  are  master,  my  lord  ;  but  if  you  knew  what  money 
it  is '  And  he  took  a  torn  notebook  from  his  pocket. 


IN  DON  CRESCENZIOS  LOTTERY-SHOP         127 

'What  is  it  you  refer  to  ?'  said  the  Marquis,  casting  de- 
vouring eyes  on  the  pocket-book. 

'  Nothing,  my  lord ;'  and  he  respectfully  handed  his 
master  a  fifty-franc  note. 

He  did  it  in  such  a  way  as  to  try  and  prevent  the  Marquis 
seeing  a  second  one  he  had ;  but  the  old  gentleman  dared 
not  ask  for  it  just  then. 

'  You  can  go,'  he  said  to  the  servant,  who  went  off. 

He  walked  up  and  down  the  room  impatiently ;  then  he 
rang  the  bell  twice.  Margherita  came  forward  in  the  same 
trembling,  almost  hesitating  way  as  her  husband.  The  old 
nobleman,  descended  from  Guido  Cavalcanti  and  ten  genera- 
tions of  gentlemen,  now  stooped  to  cheat  like  a  rogue. 

'  Margherita,  do  you  know  if  Bianca  Maria  has  money  ?' 
he  asked  absently. 

'  Who  would  give  it  to  her  ?  The  few  francs  she  gets 
from  Sister  Maria  degli  Angioli  and  her  godfather  at  Christ- 
mas she  gives  to  the  poor.' 

'  I  thought  she  had  some,'  he  said,  putting  on  his  great 
coat.  '  I  am  much  embarrassed  ;  I  have  to  pay  a  debt  this 
evening,  and  I  supposed  Bianca  Maria  would  help  her  father. 
I  am  very  much  annoyed.  Perhaps  you  have  some  money, 
Margherita?' 

'  I  have  money,'  said  she,  not  daring  to  deny  it,  out  of 
respect  and  fear  of  her  master. 

'  Can  you  give  me  some  ?  I'll  give  it  you  back  to-morrow 
evening.' 

'  Really,'  she  replied,  '  I  have  some  money,  but  I  wished 
to  buy  a  dress  for  her  ladyship.  Your  lordship  does  not 
notice  it ;  but  at  twenty,  and  as  lovely  as  a  queen,  my  mis- 
tress has  only  had  two  dresses  in  two  years — one  for 
summer,  the  other  for  winter.  She  does  not  even  notice  it 
herself,  poor  soul !  .  .  .  I  had  thought  of  buying  one  for 
her.  Your  lordship  could  have  given  me  back  the  money 
at  your  leisure.' 

'  Sister  Margherita,  give  me  that  money  now,  and  to- 
morrow evening,  I  promise  you  before  God,  Bianca  Maria 
will  have  money  for  ten  dresses.' 

'  Amen,'  said  Margherita  sadly  and  resignedly. 

She  could  not  resist  the  emotion  in  her  master's  voice. 
Pulling  out  a  silk  purse  from  her  bodice,  she  detached  a 
hundred-franc  note  from  a  roll  of  notes.  He  took  it  and 
hid  it  at  once  in  his  purse,  and  went  out,  saying  with  wild 


128  THE  LAND  OF  COCKAYNE 

joy,  in  a  queer  tone  of  certainty,  '  Till  to-morrow  evening.' 
And  he  said  '  Till  to-morrow  evening  '  again  as  he  passed 
through  the  drawing-room,  standing  by  his  daughter  at  a 
window  which  she  had  opened  to  get  fresh  air  to  try  and 
recover  from  her  moral  and  physical  weakness. 

The  Marquis  di  Formosa  went  down  the  steps  quickly, 
lively  as  a  lad  going  to  a  love-tryst.  Someone,  in  fact,  was 
waiting  for  him,  walking  up  and  down  before  the  door.  It 
was  Don  Pasqualino  De  Feo,  the  medium.  His  sickly,  mean 
look  was  not  changed  at  all ;  he  still  wore  his  torn,  dirty 
clothes,  but  that  evening  his  eyes  were  sparkling  in  his  thin 
face.  He  put  his  hand  on  the  Marquis  di  Formosa's  arm. 
Formosa,  who  had  not  noticed  him,  greeted  him  with  a 
smile. 

'  Have  you  the  money  ?'  asked  Don  Pasqualino,  lowering 
his  eyelids  as  if  to  hide  the  flame  alight  in  his  eyes. 

'  Yes  ;  how  much  is  needed  ?' 

'  Four  Masses  must  be  paid  for  in  four  parishes  to-morrow 
morning.  We  will  make  it  five  francs  each  Mass.  I  must 
spend  the  night  in  prayer.  The  spirit  told  me  to  shut  myself 
up  in  San  Pasquale  at  midnight.  I  have  promised  a  gift  of 
ten  francs  to  the  sacristan ;  otherwise  it  would  not  be  allowed. 
We  agreed  to  light  four  candles  before  San  Benedetto's 
altar  ;  it  is  his  day  to-morrow.  Ten  francs — forty  ;  yes, 
forty  francs  would  be  enough.' 

He  made  his  calculation  coldly,  keeping  his  eyes  cast 
down,  but  his  queer,  mysterious  talk  was  unusually  clear. 
The  Marquis  di  Formosa  agreed  with  a  nod  to  every  new 
expense  that  the  medium  enumerated,  thinking  it  reasonable. 

'  And  how  much  for  yourself  ?'  he  asked,  after  counting 
forty  francs  into  Don  Pasqualino's  hands. 

'  You  know  I  need  nothing,'  said  the  other,  waving  it  off. 

'  When  do  we  meet  ?' 

'  To-morrow  morning  after  my  vigil,  if  the  spirit  leaves 
me  alive.  Friday  last  I  was  so  beaten  I  thought  I  was 
dying,'  the  medium  said  emphatically,  but  in  a  whisper. 

'  I  trust  in  you,'  Formosa  murmured. 

'  Let  us  trust  in  him,'  retorted  the  other  fervently,  show- 
ing the  whites  of  his  eyes. 

'  Pray  to  him — pray  to  him !'  the  Marquis  implored. 

They  separated  after  the  Marquis  had  pressed  two  soft, 
wet  fingers  that  Don  Pasqualino  held  out  to  him.  De  Feo 
went  up  again  towards  Tarsia ;  Formosa  went  down  towards 


IN  DON  CRESCENZIO' S  LOTTERY-SHOP          129 

Toledo.  He  was  going  to  the  lottery  bank,  No.  117,  at  the 
corner  of  Nunzio  Lane,  where  the  handsome,  chestnut-bearded 
Don  Crescenzio  was  the  banker,  and  where  Formosa  and  his 
friends  were  in  the  habit  of  staking.  The  shop,  lately  white- 
washed, glittered  with  light.  Three  gas-jets  were  burning 
at  full  cock  above  the  broad  wooden  counter  and  high  wire 
grating  that  cut  off  the  bottom  of  the  shop  from  one  wall  to 
the  other.  Behind  this  counter,  seated  on  three  high  stools 
in  front  of  openings  in  the  grating,  Don  Crescenzio  and  his 
two  clerks  were  working,  his  lads,  so  called,  though  one  of 
them — Don  Baldassare — was  seventy,  and  might  have  been 
a  hundred,  he  looked  so  decrepit ;  though  the  other  had  one 
of  those  colourless  faces,  with  indefinite  lines  and  colouring, 
that  might  be  any  age. 

They  kept  a  big  register  open  before  them,  called  '  To 
mother  and  daughter ' — that  is  to  say,  with  double  yellow 
slips  of  paper.  They  wrote  the  numbers  on  them  with 
heavy,  sharp-pointed  pens,  so  as  to  have  a  clear,  strong  hand- 
writing, putting  down  each  number  twice ;  one  could  see 
their  lips  move  as  they  repeated  it.  Then  they  cut  the 
ticket  with  a  dry  click  of  the  great  scissors  held  in  the  right 
hand,  passed  it  quickly  through  a  wooden  saucer  of  black 
sand  to  dry  it,  and,  after  taking  the  money,  handed  it  to  the 
gambler.  Don  Crescenzio  had  the  fine  contented  look  of  a 
good  macaroni-eater,  smiling  in  his  dark  beard  ;  whilst  Don 
Baldassare,  so  bent  he  seemed  hunchbacked,  his  crooked 
nose  drooping  into  his  toothless  mouth,  worked  very  phleg- 
matically.  Don  Checchino,  the  pale  clerk,  wrote  hurriedly, 
so  as  to  finish  and  go  away. 

When  the  Marquis  di  Formosa  came  in  about  half-past 
nine,  the  shop  was  full  of  people  putting  down  their  stakes. 
The  game  began  feebly  on  Friday  morning,  increasing  at 
mid-day,  and  in  the  evening  it  got  to  the  flood.  The  Marquis 
di  Formosa  beckoned,  and  Don  Crescenzio  opened  his  little 
door  and  attentively  handed  him  a  chair.  The  Marquis 
always  spent  Friday  evenings  there,  seated  in  a  corner, 
watching  all  the  people  gambling.  He  tried  to  get  up  an 
excitement  by  the  sight,  and  succeeded  to  a  great  extent. 
He  had  the  lottery  numbers  and  the  money  in  his  pocket ; 
but  he  never  played  when  he  first  came  in.  He  tasted  the 
joy  a  long  time,  from  seeing  others  do  it. 

The  shop  was  full  of  people.  They  came  in  by  two  wide- 
open  doors,  one  in  Toledo  Street,  the  other  in  Nunzio  Lane. 

9 


130  THE  LAND  OF  COCKAYNE 

The  flood  rolled  in  and  out,  beating  against  the  wooden 
counter,  which  was  shiny  from  human  contact.  The  crowd 
was  of  all  ranks  and  ages,  with  every  variety  of  the 
human  face  :  good-looking  and  ugly,  healthy  and  sickly, 
gay,  sorrowing,  stupefied,  and  dull.  The  crowd  came  from 
all  the  streets  around,  from  Chianche  della  Carita  and 
Corsea,  San  Tommaso  di  Aquino  cloister  and  Consiglio 
ward,  Toledo  and  San  Liborio  Lane.  Certainly  there  was 
another  lottery  bank  a  short  distance  off,  one  in  Magno- 
cavallo  Street,  and  another  in  Pignasecca  Road.  In  a  few 
hundred  steps'  radius  there  were  several,  all  flaming  with  gas 
and  overflowing  with  people.  But  if  a  lottery  bank  was 
opened  for  every  three  other  shops  in  Naples,  from  Friday 
to  Saturday,  each  would  have  its  crowd.  Besides,  lottery 
banks  go  by  favour,  like  other  things ;  some  are  popular, 
others  are  not.  The  one  in  Nunzio  Lane,  like  the  Plebiscite 
Square  and  the  Monte  Oliveto  Road  ones,  had  a  great  name 
for  luck.  Large  sums  had  been  gained  there.  Many 
people,  therefore,  came  from  a  distance  to  stake  a  franc,  five 
francs,  or  a  hundred,  at  the  bank. 

The  three  groups  in  front  of  the  wickets  in  Don  Cres- 
cenzio's  lottery  bank  melted  into  one,  for  ever  flowing  and 
ebbing  ;  and  the  Marquis  di  Formosa,  his  hat  a  little  back 
on  his  head,  showing  his  fine  forehead  with  some  drops  of 
sweat  on  it,  looked  on  this  sight  with  enchanted  eyes,  hold- 
ing his  ebony  stick  between  his  legs.  Sometimes,  on  recog- 
nising a  friend  or  acquaintance  before  one  of  the  openings, 
his  eyes  shone  with  delight,  much  flattered  that  so  many 
distinguished  worthy  people  shared  his  passion.  He  opened 
his  eyes  wide  to  see  it  all,  to  take  in  the  ever-changing 
picture,  stretching  his  ears  to  hear  the  conversations  and 
soliloquys — for  lottery  gamblers  speak  to  themselves  out 
loud,  even  in  public — to  find  out  which  number  among  so 
many  mentioned  came  oftenest  into  people's  mouths,  so  as 
to  play  it  that  night  or  next  morning.  It  was  warm,  and 
the  light  was  strong  in  that  crowded  little  shop.  But  the 
Marquis  di  Formosa  felt  a  curious  pleasure,  a  full  wide 
sensation  of  vitality ;  he  felt  young  again,  and  in  the  pride  of 
health  and  strength. 

In  the  meanwhile  the  crowd  was  not  getting  smaller ;  it 
increased.  While  in  front  of  white-faced  Don  Checchino's 
wicket  a  lot  of  students  made  a  row,  calling  out  their  own 
numbers,  laughing,  and  pushing  each  other,  at  old  Don 


IN  DON  CRESCENZI&S  LOTTERY-SHOP         131 

Baldassare's,  in  front  of  the  humble  crowd  were  two  or 
three  great  gamblers,  who  gave  a  whole  string  of  numbers, 
staking  tens  and  hundreds  of  francs  on  them.  The  old 
clerk  wrote  slowly,  phlegmatically,  and  read  them  out  before 
handing  the  tickets.  At  Don  Crescenzio's,  where  the  work 
was  got  through  quicker,  the  scene  changed  every  minute  : 
the  clerk  came  after  the  soldier-servant  sent  to  stake  for  his 
Colonel,  a  sulky  workman  gave  place  to  a  stupid-looking 
country  nurse,  the  old  lay  Sister  stuck  herself  behind  the 
retired  magistrate— all  were  chattering,  looking  ecstatic,  or 
deeply,  sadly  engrossed.  That  was  how  Don  Domenico 
Mayer  looked,  the  misanthropic  Under- Secretary  of  Finance. 
He  was  now  standing  before  Don  Crescenzio,  his  eyes  cast 
down,  his  cavernous  voice  dictating  ten  terni,  terni  secchi,  on 
which  he  boldly  played  two  francs  each,  to  win  ten  thousand 
francs,  less  the  tax  on  personal  estate.  At  the  third  terno, 
he  asked  fiercely : 

'  How  much  is  the  tax  ?' 

'Thirteen  and  twenty  per  cent.,'  Don  Crescenzio  replied 
playfully,  waving  his  fat  white  hand  in  a  graceful  style. 

'  Cheat  of  a  Government !'  a  shrill  voice  called  out  behind 
Don  Domenico. 

It  was  Michele  the  shoeblack,  waiting  to  play  his  small 
Friday  evening  game.  He  was  to  play  higher  stakes  next 
day,  when  he  got  the  money  from  Donna  Concetta.  In  the 
meanwhile  he  tasted  the  delight  of  being  there  as  he  waited 
his  turn.  At  the  third  terno  secco  Don  Domenico  explained 
his  game. 

*  I  don't  care  about  taking  the  ambo ;  fifteen  francs  are 
nothing  to  me.' 

'  Indeed  !'  said  complacent  Don  Crescenzio. 

He  took  the  twenty  francs,  folded  the  coupons  neatly,  and 
handed  them  to  him.  Getting  on  tiptoe  to  reach  the  wicket, 
the  lame  hunchback  was  already  dictating  his  numbers. 
He  gave  the  explanation  of  each. 

'  This  I  have  played  for  twenty  years  .  .  .  this  is  Father 
Giuseppe  d'Avellino's  terno  .  .  .  this  is  the  ambo  of  the 
day  .  .  .  this  is  the  terno  of  the  man  killed  in  Piazza,  degli 
Orefici.' 

But  they  were  small  stakes,  seven  or  eight  francs  in  all, 
and  those  waiting  behind  him  got  impatient.  By  a  curious 
attraction,  big  gamblers  went  to  Don  Baldassare,  the  old 
man.  Ninetto  Costa,  in  evening  dress,  just  showing  under 

9—2 


132  THE  LAND  OF  COCKAYNE 

his  overcoat,  his  gibus  hat  rather  askew  on  his  curly,  scented 
hair,  his  very  white  teeth  uncovered  by  smiling  red  lips, 
handed  his  list  over  to  the  accountant,  while  he  smoked  a 
Havana  calmly,  cheerful  as  usual.  He  satisfied  Don  Bal- 
dassare's  inquiries  pleasantly.  The  sum  staked  had  to  be 
repeated  to  him  as  a  precaution,  not  because  he  wondered 
at  the  largeness  of  it. 

'  On  the  first  ticket  seventy  on  the  term,  twenty  on  the 
quaterna  ?' 

'  Yes,  that  is  it ;'  and  he  puffed  out  odorous  smoke. 

'  On  the  second  terno  secco  a  hundred  and  fifty  is  it  ?' 

'  Yes,  a  hundred  and  fifty.' 

'  On  the  third  the  whole  ticket,  two  hundred  and  forty 
francs.  Is  that  right  ?' 

'  Two  hundred  and  forty — that  is  right.' 

The  Marquis  di  Formosa,  who  had  exchanged  a  smile 
with  Ninetto  Costa,  strained  his  ears  to  hear  the  ciphers. 
He  quivered,  touched  with  a  little  envy,  regretting  he  had 
not  so  much  money  to  stake.  When  he  heard  the  whole 
amount,  six  hundred  and  fifty  francs,  and  saw  Ninetto  Costa 
pull  out  this  sum  lightly  to  hand  to  Don  Baldassare,  he 
grew  pale,  thinking  how  much  he  could  win  with  so  high  a 
risk.  He  went  out,  almost  choking,  to  get  air  at  the  door. 
There  Ninetto  Costa  joined  him.  Both  gazed  down  Toledo, 
on  its  crowd  and  lights,  without  seeing  them. 

'  You  are  lucky,'  stammered  the  old  nobleman  ;  '  you  have 
money.' 

'  If  you  knew  all !'  said  the  other,  grown  grave  suddenly. 
'  I  pawned  jewels  I  paid  twenty  thousand  francs  for,  and  I 
only  got  five  thousand.  The  pawnshops  keep  down  the 
loans  on  Friday  and  Saturday  ;  they  get  such  a  lot  of 
things.' 

'  What  does  it  matter  ? — you  will  win,'  said  the  old  man, 
rolling  his  eyes,  excited  by  the  vision  of  success. 

'  On  Monday  I  have  a  settlement  on  the  Exchange — 
twenty  thousand  francs'  loss,  and  not  a  penny  in  my  pocket. 
If  I  don't  take  something,  where  will  I  put  my  head  ?' 

'  You  have  good  numbers  ?'  Formosa  asked  anxiously. 

'  I  have  staked  everything.  Pasqualino  De  Feo  wanted 
fifty  francs  to  soothe  the  spirit.  He  gave  me  three  ternos, 
two  ambos,  and  a  situato.  Then  that  common  girl  I  pay 
court  to,  I  gave  her  a  watch.  She  gave  me  some  numbers, 
but  under  a  symbol.  You  understand  ?  Then  there  are  the 


IN  DON  CRESCENZICTS  LOTTERY-SHOP          133 

Cabal  numbers  we  play  together,  and  Marzano's  cobbler's 
ones,  and  so  on.  I  know  if  I  don't  win,  Marquis,  and  a 
big  sum,  I  must  go  bankrupt ;'  and  the  thoughtless  stock- 
broker's voice  trembled  tragically.  '  I  am  going  to  a  dance — 
good-evening,'  he  said  then,  lighting  his  cigar  again  ;  and 
he  went  off  with  his  nimble  step. 

Excited  by  this  talk,  the  Marquis  di  Formosa  went  into 
the  lottery-shop  again.  Now,  before  the  pale,  flabby  Don 
Checchino's  grill,  leaning  her  elbow  on  the  counter,  Carmela, 
the  cigar-girl,  using  the  ten  francs  Donna  Concetta  gave 
her  for  her  earrings,  was  saying  her  numbers,  faintly,  with 
pauses,  playing  three  or  four  popular  tickets. 

'  Six  and  twenty-two — put  half  a  franc  on  that  ;  eight, 
thirteen,  and  eighty-four — two  sous  for  the  ambo  of  it,  eight 
sous  for  the  terno  ;  then  eight  and  ninety,  on  the  ambo  other 
four  sous.' 

She  stopped  now  and  then,  as  if  other  sad  thoughts  dis- 
tracted her  ;  a  flush  coloured  her  delicate  cheeks.  When 
Don  Checchino  made  up  the  account,  four  francs  forty 
centimes,  she  took  out  a  roll  of  copper  money  and  began  to 
count  slowly. 

'  Hurry  up !  hurry  up  !'  an  impatient  woman's  voice 
cried  out. 

She  turned  round  and  recognised  the  woman,  an  old 
servant,  Donna  Rosa,  she  that  served  in  the  house  where 
her  unfortunate  sister  lived.  They  spoke  in  a  whisper. 

'  Oh,  Donna  Rosa,  and  how  is  Filomena  ?' 

'  She  is  well ;  but  she  is  in  distress.  She  sent  me  to  play 
this  number — three  girls  are  playing  it,  rather,  as  there 
has  been  a  wound  given,  unluckily.' 

'  Oh,  Jesus !  God  bless  her,  poor  sister !  And  you — 
where  do  you  come  from  ?' 

'  I  live  in  Chianche  Road,  and  I  am  going  home.' 

'  Greet  her  for  me,'  Carmela  whispered  eagerly. 

Pulling  her  shawl  round  her,  she  went  away,  with  her 
head  down,  as  if  overpowered  by  tiredness.  Next  to  Rosa, 
the  unfortunates'  servant,  came  Baron  Annibale  Lamarra, 
fat,  pale,  panting  with  his  hurried  walk  from  one  lottery 
bank  to  another.  He  played  many  tickets  of  twenty,  fifty, 
a  hundred  francs  each  ;  but,  fearing  to  be  spied  on  by  his 
miserly  wife,  whose  dower  he  wasted,  in  spite  of  terrible 
scenes,  afraid  of  being  caught  by  his  father,  a  self-made 
man,  he  had  got  up  the  fraud  of  playing  a  ticket  at  each 


134  THE  LAND  OF  COCKAYNE 

place.  He  ran  panting  from  one  lottery  to  another,  trying 
to  believe  he  would  win  on  Saturday  and  take  back  the 
promissory  note  from  Don  Gennaro  Parascandolo,  the  one 
that  had  his  wife's  signature.  The  thought  of  it  made  him 
shiver  with  fright.  When  he  got  out  of  Don  Crescenzio's 
lottery-shop  he  breathed  again,  and  reckoned  up  mentally. 
Of  the  two  thousand  francs,  he  had  given  two  hundred  to 
Ambrogio  Marzano,  the  cheerful  old  lawyer,  for  arranging 
with  Parascandolo  ;  then  he  had  staked  one  thousand  six 
hundred  francs  in  different  banks.  He  had  two  hundred 
francs  left.  He  would  stake  them  next  day,  for  perhaps  he 
would  dream  of  some  good  number  at  night.  It  was  no 
use  risking  it  all  at  once.  In  the  meanwhile,  from  the  other 
door,  just  as  he  got  out,  Don  Ambrogio  Marzano  came  in. 
He  stopped  to  talk  with  the  Marquis  di  Formosa. 

'  Have  you  some  good  lottery  numbers  ?'  Formosa  asked 
anxiously.  He  clung  to  the  pleasant  old  man  as  a  bearer  of 
luck. 

'  I  have  a  forty-nine  secondo  that  is  a  love,  my  lord  !' 
whispered  the  enthusiast,  so  as  not  to  be  heard. 

'  Ah  !  and  what  else  ?' 

'  Twenty-seven,  you  know,  is  the  sympathetic  number  at 
the  end  of  the  month.' 

'  I  have  it,  too.     What  do  you  say  of  the  fourteenth  ?' 

'  It  is  very  good,  my  lord ;  but  do  you  wish  really  to  know 
the  lightning,  the  dazzling  number  ?' 

'  Tell  me — tell  me  !' 

'  I  tell  you  in  brotherly  love,  because  when  I  have  a 
treasure  I  can't  be  selfish  with  it,  and  keep  it  to  myself. 
You  may  have  it  as  a  proof  of  affection — it  is  thirty-five  !' 

'  Ah  !'  said  the  Marquis  in  a  stupor  of  admiration. 

In  the  meanwhile,  still  quite  serene,  Don  Ambrogio 
Marzano  went  to  place  his  stakes  with  Don  Crescenzio. 
It  is  true  he  had  had  to  give  the  usual  fifteen  francs  to  his 
Cabalist  cobbler.  He  had  given  ten  to  Don  Pasqualino, 
though  he  did  not  believe  in  him  much,  and  a  journey  to 
Marano,  to  take  Father  Illuminato  a  tortoise-shell  snuff-box, 
had  cost  him  thirty  francs ;  but  he  had  taken  them  from  a 
prepayment  of  law  expenses  he  got  from  a  client,  so  that  the 
two  hundred  francs  was  intact,  and  he  paid  it  all.  Gaetano 
the  glove-cutter,  Annarella's  husband,  whose  child  was 
dying,  was  waiting  his  turn  to  stake  ;  but  it  was  a  hard 
week,  he  had  not  got  the  loan  of  a  sou,  and  had  had 


IN  DON  CRESCENZICPS  LOTTERY-SHOP         135 

difficulty  in  getting  an  advance  of  five  francs  from  his 
master.  He  staked  four  of  them,  keeping  back  one  for  the 
numbers  he  might  think  of  on  Saturday  morning. 

Now,  as  night  came  on,  Don  Crescenzio  and  his  tired, 
stupefied  clerks  had  a  sort  of  confused  look,  like  those  that 
havj  sat  too  long  at  musical  and  dancing  entertainments, 
with  dazzled  eye  and  deafened  ears ;  but  they  went  on 
working.  It  was  the  grand  weekly  harvest,  a  gathering  in  of 
thousands,  hundreds,  and  tens  of  francs  for  the  Government. 
Don  Crescenzio  got  a  percentage  of  it,  and  on  good  weeks  he 
gave  h;s  '  lads '  a  little  extra.  Even  the  people  coming  in 
constantly  to  stake  had  a  queer  look.  Some  were  uneasy, 
some  were  looking  round  them  suspiciously ;  others  dragged 
along  ir.  a  tired  way,  or  their  eyes  were  distracted,  as  if  they 
were  out  of  their  senses.  There  were  those  who  had  just 
found  out  numbers,  or  got  money  to  stake  ;  servants,  their 
day's  work  over,  had  run  off  to  the  lottery  before  going  to 
bed ;  shop-lads,  that  had  just  shut  up  shop,  and  youths  who 
had  run  out  between  two  acts  at  the  Florentine  Theatre,  were 
coming  in  ;  and  Cabalists  from  the  Diodati  Cafe,  or  the 
wine-roon  of  the  Testa  d'  Oro  Cafe,  who  were  all  Don 
Crescenzio's  customers,  and  after  long  discussion  now 
ended  by  risking  all  they  had  that  evening  ;  then  a  magis- 
trate, weighed  down  by  children  and  poverty,  on  his  way 
back  from  a  game  of  scopa,  at  a  sou,  ventured  the  twenty 
francs  that  was  to  feed  them  for  four  days ;  and  the  pale, 
sickly  painter  of  saints,  having  insisted  on  getting  the  money 
for  a  Santa  Candida  beforehand,  came  in  just  then  to  stake 
it,  and  he  was  certain  to  play  next  morning  what  Donna 
Concetta  had  promised  him  for  the  statue  of  the  Immaculate 
Conception. 

Even  a  very  elegant  little  street  carriage  stopped,  and  a 
hand  in  pearl-gray  gloves,  studded  with  diamonds  at  the 
wrist,  handed  a  paper  and  money  to  a  gallooned  footman. 
The  Marquis  di  Formosa,  who  had  left  his  seat  out  of  nervous- 
ness, and  was  wandering  among  the  gamblers  who  came  out 
and  in,  recognised  the  profile  of  a  lady  of  his  own  set,  the 
Spanish  Princess,  Ines  di  Miradois. 

'  It  is  true,  then,  that  Francesco  Althan  takes  everything 
from  her,'  the  old  lord  thought  to  himself. 

He  joined  Dr.  Trifari  and  Professor  Colaneri  as  they  now 
came  in,  still  quivering  with  rage.  They  quarrelled  by  the 
hour  about  dividing  poor  Rocco  Galasso's  seven  hundred 


136  THE  LAND  OF  COCKAYNE 

and  sixty  francs.  Trifari  made  out  he  had  induced  his  fellow- 
villager,  Rocco  Galasso,  to  sign,  and  he  wanted  five  hundred 
francs.  Colaneri  made  out  that  Rocco  Gallasso  had  signed 
the  promissory  note  so  as  to  get  the  examination  papers  from 
him  beforehand,  and  by  giving  them  he  had  gravely  com- 
promised himself ;  he  might  lose  his  post  through  it ;  therefore 
the  five  hundred  francs  were  his.  The  struggle  had  been 
tremendous.  They  nearly  came  to  blows  twice  ;  but  Trifari 
very  unwillingly,  choking  with  rage,  gave  in,  because  heknew 
Colaneri  had  revelations  at  night — a  thing  he,  a  full-blooded 
heretical  blasphemer,  did  not  have.  And  Colaneri  gave  in 
because  Trifari  brought  him  many  students  to  do  business 
with  for  the  examinations — a  most  dangerous  thing  to  do, 
and  he  himself  was  afraid  of  the  risk,  but  he  yielded  to 
temptation  to  satisfy  his  vices.  In  short,  they  divided  the 
seven  hundred  and  sixty  francs.  They  had  met  themedium, 
who  asked  them  in  an  inspired  tone  if  they  wished  to  do  alms 
of  five  francs  to  St.  Joseph.  They  gave  it,  thinking  the 
question  meant  numbers,  and  that  they  ought  to  play  five 
for  the  money  and  nineteen  for  St.  Joseph's  number.  All 
the  medium  says  on  Friday  evening  and  Saturda/  morning 
means  lottery  numbers.  So  that  Trifari  and  Cokneri,  after 
making  their  game  on  their  favourite  numbers,  came  down 
at  once  to  play  these  less  probable  ones,  according  to  them ; 
then  they  played  the  popular  numbers,  which  were  three 
and  four,  just  in  case  ;  and  at  last,  leaning  on  the  great 
wooden  counter,  they  looked  in  each  other's  faces  with  an 
idiotic  grin,  still  thinking  out  if  they  had  forgotten  any- 
thing. 

In  spite  of  the  late  hour,  people  went  on  crowding  up  Don 
Crescenzio's  lottery  bank.  He  would  get  a  large  profit  this 
last  Friday  in  March,  owing  to  a  flowing  back  of  malignant 
fever,  one  of  those  wild,  gathered-up  rushes  of  the  slow 
disease  that  eats  up  Naples'  fortunes.  There  were  people 
come  out  of  theatres  who  had  thought  all  evening  about 
what  ticket  to  play  ;  they  did  not  wish  to  put  off  doing  so 
till  Saturday,  for  fear  of  forgetting  it  in  the  few  morning 
hours  left.  There  were  night-cabmen  who  stopped  before 
the  shop,  came  down  from  the  box,  and  waited  their  turn  to 
play,  the  inseparable  whip  in  hand,  with  the  patient  eyes  of 
those  accustomed  to  long  waiting ;  there  were  those  ragged, 
wretched,  wandering  night-hawkers,  shadowy  figures,  who 
shivered  with  fright  in  the  bright  warm  gaslight — vendors  of 


IN  DON  CRESCENZIO'S  LOTTERY-SHOP         137 

newspapers,  fritters,  pickers-up  of  cigar-ends,  sellers  of  pizze, 
of  beans,  of  grass  for  the  horses  of  night-cabs  passing  from 
time  to  time,  calling  out  their  wares  ;  and  they,  too,  stopped 
at  the  lottery-stand,  and  went  in,  not  able  to  resist  playing  a 
franc,  half  a  franc,  a  few  sous.  The  driver  and  two  porters 
of  the  omnibus  that  takes  travellers  by  the  last  train  to  the 
Allegria  Hotel  came  in ;  whilst  the  bus-conductors  and 
drivers  in  Carita  Square,  as  soon  as  their  day's  run  was 
over,  which  must  have  made  them  dead-tired,  had  come  to 
stake  on  the  lottery  before  going  home. 

Formosa  had  not  made  up  his  mind  to  play  yet,  with  that 
sort  of  dallying  with  time  all  lovers  and  excitable  people  go 
in  for.  In  a  corner  of  the  entrance,  so  as  to  let  people  pass, 
he  conversed  with  Trifari  and  Colaneri,  who  did  not  want 
to  leave  either,  though  they  had  nothing  left  to  stake. 
They  stood  to  enjoy  that  light,  warmth,  and  crowd,  the 
money  flowing  in,  the  lottery-tickets  going  out,  pledges  of 
fortune  and  riches,  and  to  muse  over  which  of  them  was  the 
right  one.  Which  ?  which  ?  Here  was  the  tremendous, 
delightful  doubt,  the  immense,  burning  unknown,  the 
mystery  that  smiled  through  the  veil  that  cannot  be  lifted. 

After  taking  a  little  walk  through  Toledo,  being  unable 
to  resist  the  attraction,  Ambrogio  Marzano,  the  lawyer,  had 
come  back,  too,  and  joined  his  little  group  of  Cabalist  friends, 
conversing  with  them  by  fits  and  starts.  Quite  incapable 
of  not  mentioning  his  number,  his  crowning  stroke,  he  told 
them  of  thirty-five,  so  that  Colaneri  and  Trifari  went  in  to 
play  it,  and  he,  Marzano,  went  in  to  play  seventy-three, 
which  Colaneri  had  given  him.  No,  Formosa  was  not 
going  to  stake  yet.  But  the  end  of  his  enjoyment  was 
drawing  near ;  he  felt  the  great  moment  coming  on,  and  in 
one  of  his  fervent,  mystic  bursts  he  prayed  silently  to  the 
Lord,  the  Casa  Cavalcanti  Madonna,  the  Ecce  Homo  he 
worshipped  in  his  family  chapel,  to  enlighten  and  inspire 
him,  to  do  him  the  one  great  favour  he  had  asked  for  years. 
His  friends,  after  tasting  this  other  drop  of  pleasure,  came 
out  again,  and  chatted  vivaciously  about  numbers,  getting 
excited  with  the  big  shadows  that  now  filled  Toledo,  broken 
by  that  square  of  light  the  lottery  lamp  cast  on  the  pave- 
ment. Just  then  they  saw  Cesare  Fragala  go  in.  After 
shutting  his  shop,  the  gay  confectioner  always  spent  a 
couple  of  hours  at  his  club  to  play  dominoes  with  other 
tradesmen — grocers,  drapers,  oilmen,  fishmongers — putting 


I38  THE  LAND  OF  COCK  A  YNE 

down  a  sou  a  game.  On  Friday  evening  he  played  these 
long  games,  too,  but  rather  distractedly,  nervous,  in  spite  of 
his  youthful  gaiety,  and  he  made  off  rather  early  to  go  to 
his  dear  Don  Crescenzio's  to  make  his  weekly  large  stake. 

Really,  there  was  a  little  crabbedness  in  his  gambling 
ardour,  something  like  a  feeling  of  remorse,  of  shame  at 
throwing  away  his  money  in  that  way,  so  he  came  late  to 
the  lottery  bank,  when  there  were  fewer  people  about  to  see 
and  know  him.  He  was  put  out  that  evening  on  Formosa 
greeting  him  ;  it  annoyed  him  to  be  seen  by  his  neighbour. 
Then  he  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  stood  by  his  dearest 
friend  Don  Crescenzio,  who  went  on  writing,  stroking  his 
fine  beard,  making  a  lot  of  fine  flourishes  with  his  pen. 
He  began  to  dictate  his  numbers  to  him  on  and  on,  showing 
his  white  teeth  in  a  smile.  Don  Crescenzio  wrote  on  quite 
unmoved.  For  the  six  months  that  Cesare  Fragala  played 
at  his  bank  the  stakes  had  gone  on  increasing.  In  that 
flood  of  numbers  dictated,  Don  Crescenzio,  with  his  peculiar 
memory,  recognised  the  medium's  numbers — that  is  to  say, 
his  symbols,  that  everyone  had  interpreted  differently,  so 
that  Formosa,  Colaneri,  Trifari,  Marzano,  Ninetto  Costa, 
Cesare  Fragala,  and  all  who  took  their  luck  on  Don  Pas- 
qualino's  words,  played  different  numbers,  and  a  great 
many  of  them,  and  thus  they  all  managed  now  and  then  to 
make  some  small  hazardous  gain — fifteen  or  twenty  crowns 
over  a  situato,  six  hundred  francs  over  an  ambo — very  seldom, 
it  is  true,  but  often  enough  to  fan  their  passion  and  make 
them  all  slaves  to  Don  Pasqualino's  cloudy  phrases.  So 
with  a  slight  smile,  while  he  was  adding  up  the  sum,  Don 
Crescenzio  said : 

'You,  too,  are  one  of  Pasqualino  De  Feo's  clients  ?' 

'  You  know  him  ?'  asked  Fragala  anxiously. 

'  Eh,  we  are  friends,'  Crescenzio  muttered. 

« He  knows  the  numbers,  does  he  not  ?'  Fragala  asked, 
with  a  quiver  in  his  throat. 

'  Often  he  gets  them  right.' 

'  How  often  ? 

'  When  his  client  is  in  God's  favour,'  the  agent  answered 
enigmatically.  Wishing  to  end  the  conversation,  he  politely 
handed  over  the  tickets,  saying  :  '  Five  hundred  and  forty 
francs.' 

Fragala  paid  stolidly  with  a  tradesman's  calm,  without 
changing  expression.  But  when  he  got  out  of  the  lottery- 


IN  DON  CRESCENZIOS  LOTTERY-SHOP          139 

shop,  at  the  door,  his  smile  faded  ;  he  remembered  he  had 
made  his  first  debt  to  a  money-lender  that  day,  and  that  he 
had  given  security  on  the  shop  funds,  having  also  taken  out 
the  whole  balance  to  make  up  the  big  sum  he  had  staked. 
It  was  to  get  away  from  these  sad  thoughts  that  he  joined 
the  group  of  Cabalists.  At  one  in  the  morning,  standing  in 
front  of  the  gambling  place,  they  neither  felt  the  hours 
passing,  the  lateness,  nor  the  penetrating  damp  ;  for  they 
burned  with  that  constant  inward  fire  that  flamed  up  from 
Friday  to  Saturday.  They  began  the  same  stories  again, 
at  great  length,  for  the  thousandth  time,  interrupting  each 
other,  getting  heated  and  excited,  staring  at  each  other  with 
wild,  humid  eyes,  as  if  they  were  possessed.  Cesare  Fragala 
listened,  trying  to  get  the  same  fever,  but  not  succeeding  ; 
for  he  was  only  a  weak  soul,  not  mad,  nor  subject  to  nerves. 
When  they  all  went  over  the  reasons  that  made  them 
gamble,  such  and  such  material  and  moral  needs,  urgent 
and  impelling,  that  the  lottery  alone  could  satisfy,  he  listened 
in  a  melancholy  way.  At  one  point  he  said  : 

'  I — I  need  sixty  thousand  francs  to  open  a  shop  towards 
San  Ferdinando,  and  make  a  marriage  portion  for  Agnesina.' 

A  deep  sadness  overpowered  him.  Good,  honest,  in- 
capable of  lying  about  anything  to  his  wife,  he  had  deceived 
her  for  months,  like  a  cheat ;  he  took  the  ledgers  she  often 
stopped  to  turn  over  out  of  her  hands,  and  with  hourly 
caution  he  tried  to  hide  his  vice  from  her,  thus  destroying 
his  good  temper  and  ease. 

'  If  it  were  not  for  this  shop,  if  it  were  not  for  Agnesina ' 

he  muttered,  a  prey  to  inconsolable  bitterness. 

Now,  about  half-past  one,  the  time  came  to  shut  the 
lottery  bank,  as  the  customers  became  fewer  and  fewer  ; 
and  at  last  the  Marquis  di  Formosa  made  up  his  mind  to  go 
and  stake.  Notes  in  hand,  he  said  the  lottery  numbers 
slowly  over  to  Don  Crescenzio.  There  was  a  slight  tremor 
in  his  voice,  and  his  eyes  stared  at  the  string  of  figures  on 
the  paper,  as  if  he  was  enjoying  himself.  The  gambling-shop 
was  deserted  now.  His  Cabalist  friends,  Colaneri,  Trifari, 
Marzano,  bringing  Fragala  with  them,  who  was  in  very  low 
spirits,  got  behind  the  Marquis  di  Formosa  to  listen  to  his 
numbers,  and  either  winked  approval  or  shook  their  heads  un- 
believingly— in  short,  they  served  at  Formosa's  by  no  means 
short  gambling  operations  with  the  gravity  of  priests  taking 
part  in  a  Bishop's  service.  Don  Baldassare,  the  decrepit  old 


140  THE  LAND  OF  COCKA  YNE 

man,  and  pale-faced  Don  Checchino,  stood  motionless  behind 
the  counter,  their  eyes  half  shut,  dead-tired  with  that  ten 
hours'  gabbling,  thinking  of  having  to  go  through  the  same 
thing  next  day,  from  seven  till  noon,  with  great  heat  the  last 
hour.  Only  Don  Crescenzio  kept  up  his  calm,  placid, 
Neapolitan  felicity,  that  has  its  plate  of  macaroni  secure,  and 
serenely  watches  others'  excitement  from  behind  a  phantom 
plate  of  macaroni,  many  plates  of  it  in  the  great  imaginative 
country  of  Cockayne.  The  Marquis  di  Formosa,  greatly 
excited,  played  high.  He  put  down  what  Giovanni  got  from 
Concetta  the  money-lender,  what  the  lady's-maid  got  from 
Don  Gennaro  Parascandolo,  and  seventy  francs  he  got  from 
the  pawnshop  for  two  artistic  antique  gilt-bronze  candle- 
sticks, found  in  a  lumber-room  in  his  house — two  hundred 
and  twenty  francs  in  all.  He  was  still  pallid,  discontented, 
and  melancholy,  suddenly  mistrustful  of  the  value  of  some 
numbers,  sorry  not  to  be  able  to  risk  more  on  others,  in 
despair  at  the  end  at  not  being  able  to  stake  on  all  the 
others,  all  that  were  in  his  calculations. 

So  the  lover,  after  a  long-wished-for  interview  with  his 
lady,  having  got  it,  sees  the  moments  fly  past  with  frightful 
rapidity,  and  is  afterwards  deeply  grieved  at  not  having  said 
to  the  lady  a  word  of  what  he  felt.  This  old  man,  whose 
ruling  passion  was  not  dulled  by  age,  bent  his  head,  crushed 
suddenly,  as  if  he  had  lived  ten  years  in  a  minute.  He  went 
out  slowly  and  silently  with  the  others,  slow  and  silent,  too, 
through  the  dark  street  leading  to  his  house.  They  were 
all  cold  at  that  late  hour.  They  shivered,  and  pulled  their 
greatcoats  round  them,  holding  their  heads  down,  not 
speaking  to  each  other.  Thus  they  got  as  far  as  Dante 
Piazza,  under  the  Rossi  Palace,  where  the  cabalistic  talk 
began  again.  They  went  two  or  three  times  up  and  down 
the  piazza,  while  the  poet's  stern  white  statue  seemed  to 
scorn  them  with  its  blank  eyeballs.  They  took  poor 
Fragala  with  them,  eaten  up  now  by  overpowering  remorse 
for  having  thrown  away  so  much  money  that  belonged  to 
his  family.  But  it  was  no  use.  He  gambled  because  he 
was  a  weak,  cheerful  creature,  pricked  on  by  commercial 
ambition.  He  would  never  be  a  Cabalist.  The  others' 
madness  sadly  surprised  him,  and  they  never  could  have 
infected  him  with  it.  Still,  he  stayed  with  them,  feeling 
that  he  had  not  the  strength  to  go  home  and  lie  by  his  wife's 
side  with  this  remorse  on  him  for  having  thrown  away  five 


IN  DON  CRESCENZI&S  LOTTERY-SHOP         141 

hundred  francs.  He  began  to  look  distractedly  and  fixedly 
at  the  shadows,  as  if  he  saw  some  frightful  vision.  At  one 
point  Marzano  bowed  and  went  off  towards  Porta  Medina 
archway,  for  he  lived  in  Tribunale  Road.  But  the  others 
continued  to  walk  up  and  down,  raving,  in  the  darkness  and 
cold,  which  they  no  longer  felt.  The  Marquis  di  Formosa 
was  the  most  fervent  of  all.  His  eyes  sparkled,  his  figure 
stood  out  in  the  gloom,  strong  and  vigorous,  like  a  man  of 
thirty.  Then  Colaneri  and  Trifari  took  leave.  They  both 
lived  in  a  poor  house  in  Cavone  Street.  Then  Formosa 
went  on,  with  a  monologue,  speaking  to  Fragala,  the 
shadows,  or  himself.  They  were  going  down  very  slowly 
towards  Toledo  once  more,  when  a  quiet  voice  greeted  them  : 

'  Good-night,  gentlemen !' 

'  Good-night,  Don  Crescenzio,'  said  the  Marquis.  '  Have 
you  shut  up,  eh  ?  Was  it  a  good  day  ?' 

'  Thirty-two  thousand  five  hundred  and  twenty-seven 
francs  was  the  sum  staked,'  said  the  banker,  all  in  one 
breath. 

Silence  followed. 

'  Do  you  not  play,  Don  Crescenzio  ?'  Fragala  asked. 

'  No,  never.     Good-night.' 

1  Good-night.' 

He  went  off  smartly,  and  they,  seeing  the  lottery  bank  was 
shut  now,  turned  back  heavily.  It  was  with  a  sigh  that 
they  knocked  gently  at  the  palace  gate.  They  were  sorry 
to  go  home.  They  parted  on  the  first  landing  with  a  hand- 
shake and  a  smile. 


CHAPTER  IX 
BIANCA  MARIA'S  VISION 

BOTH  the  gamblers  went  upstairs  very  quietly,  like  evil- 
doers or  timid  young  fellows  who  have  disobeyed  their 
father's  orders  ;  each  carried  a  latchkey,  and  shut  the  door 
without  any  noise.  On  going  into  his  apartments  and  his 
own  room,  Cesare  Fragala,  taking  a  fit  of  penitence,  shook 
like  a  child ;  only  his  sleeping  wife's  placid  breathing  calmed 
him  a  little.  He  was  afraid  of  awakening  her,  in  case  she 
questioned  him,  and  guessed  the  truth  with  that  extra- 
ordinary alarming  intuition  women  have.  He  undressed  by 
the  slender  light  of  a  lamp  before  St.  Agnes,  and  got  into 
bed  with  the  greatest  caution,  trembling — yes,  trembling — 
lest  he  should  wake  his  wife  ;  and  in  his  humble,  contrite, 
desolate  heart  he  swore  not  to  stake  another  sou.  Only 
this  oath  and  his  healthy  constitution  freed  him  from  sleep- 
lessness, which  sits  at  the  bedhead  of  all  gamblers. 

Sleeplessness  had  visited  Formosa's  pillows.  He  had 
vainly  tried  to  read  Rutilio  Benincasa's  mathematical  table, 
to  calm  his  wandering  thoughts  ;  the  figures  danced  in  a 
ring  before  his  eyes.  He  vainly  tried  to  say  the  rosary,  to 
fix  his  mind  on  prayer,  to  humiliate  his  heart  before  the 
Eternal  Will ;  prayer  came  coldly  and  haltingly  from  his  lips. 
A  strong  fever  of  fancy  held  him,  and  put  his  nerves  on  the 
rack  ;  it  made  him  start  up  in  his  bed,  quivering  like  a  violin 
string  :  a  madness  took  hold  of  him,  and,  from  the  black 
darkness  and  solitude,  made  itself  all-powerful  over  his 
thoughts  and  feelings.  He  could  not  stay  in  bed ;  in  spite 
of  the  cold,  he  got  up  and  dressed,  and  began  to  walk  about 
in  his  freezing  room.  He  did  not  feel  cold ;  his  hands  and 
head  were  warm ;  the  candle-flame  seemed  a  great  blaze  to 
him.  All  was  silent  in  the  house ;  he  never  allowed  anyone 
to  wait  up  for  him.  The  two  poor  old  servants — Giovanni 
and  Margherita — whom  he  had  despoiled  of  their  money  got 


BIANCA  MARIA'S  VISION  143 

on  loan,  to  keep  Bianca  Maria  alive,  were  sleeping  in  the 
closet — tired  and  sorrowful,  perhaps.  Bianca  Maria  was 
asleep  in  her  cold  room  many  hours  ago  certainly.  But  the 
Marquis  di  Formosa,  devoured  by  his  gambling  folly,  hoping 
and  despairing  of  winning  from  one  moment  to  another,  im- 
plored God,  the  Virgin,  the  saints,  the  souls  of  his  dead,  his 
guardian  angel,  Fortune,  all  the  powers  of  heaven  and  earth, 
to  help  him  to  win,  to  get  the  victory ;  he  forgot  his  fears  as 
a  man  and  a  Christian  so  far  as  to  ask  it  from  evil  spirits,  even. 
Formosa,  burning  with  such  madness,  could  not  bear  that  all 
in  the  house  should  sleep  quietly,  placidly,  while  he  was  torn 
with  anguish  and  hope.  Ah  no  !  he  was  not  afraid  of  soli- 
tude and  night,  little  noises  from  old  furniture,  old  creaking 
ceilings,  or  noisy  doors  ;  he  was  afraid  of  nothing  in  that 
icy  house  where  his  wife  died  of  languor  and  sorrow,  where 
her  meek  shade  still  seemed  to  linger.  Fear !  He  asked, 
he  implored  a  voice,  a  revelation,  a  vision  ;  he  would  have 
been  pleased,  happy,  and  not  frightened,  if  he  had  seen 
something.  But  his  soul  was  too  stained  with  sin,  his  heart 
was  unclean  from  earthly  desires ;  a  white  soul,  a  virginal 
heart,  was  needed  to  get  this  heavenly  grace,  by  which  one 
saw  what  other  human  eyes  were  not  allowed  to  see.  Bianca 
Maria  was  sleeping ;  she  slept,  cold  creature !  though  so 
near  to  Grace,  and  still  refused  to  satisfy  her  father's  wishes. 
He  left  his  room,  crossed  the  passage  in  front  of  the  drawing- 
room,  and  stopped  at  his  daughter's  closed  door.  He 
listened — no  sound.  She  was  sleeping,  cold-hearted  girl ! 
She  had  no  pity  for  her  father's  tortures,  and  would  not  pray 
God  and  the  Virgin  for  a  vision.  A  dull  rage  mingled  with 
his  Friday  madness;  he  went  up  and  down  the  passage 
more  than  once,  trying  to  go  away  from  his  daughter's  room ; 
but  he  could  not  manage  it :  his  curiosity  was  so  strong  to 
know  from  her  the  spirit's  revelation  that  she  certainly  must 
have  had  that  night ;  it  could  not  have  failed  to  come.  Don 
Pasqualino,  the  medium,  after  a  three  days'  voluntary  fast, 
after  two  nights'  flagellation  on  his  shoulders  and  bare,  thin 
breast,  had  heard  from  the  spirit  who  helped  him  that  Bianca 
Maria  would  get  the  revelation.  The  spirit  does  not  lie. 
Then  involuntarily,  as  if  pushed  by  a  force  he  must  obey, 
he  took  hold  of  the  door-handle ;  it  creaked,  the  door  opened. 
But  a  sharp  cry  from  inside  answered  to  the  noise — a  girl's 
cry,  whose  light,  watchful  sleep  had  been  disturbed.  She 
rose  up  in  bed,  in  her  white  nightgown,  her  black  hair  loose 


144  THE  LAND  OF  COCKA  YNE 

on  her  shoulders,  eyes  wide  open,  and  hands  clutching  the 
coverlet. 

'  It  is  I,  Bianca — it  is  I,'  the  Marquis  di  Formosa  mur- 
mured, coming  forward. 

'  Who — who  is  it  ?'  she  asked,  shaking  with  fear,  not 
daring  to  move. 

'  I — it  is  I,  Bianca,'  he  repeated,  getting  impatient. 

She  sighed  deeply  without  saying  anything,  but  her 
breathing  was  still  alarmed.  The  Marquis  had  got  to  his 
daughter's  bed,  guided  by  the  faint  light  of  a  lamp  before  a 
small  image  of  the  Virgin. 

The  girl  fell  back  on  the  pillows  and  looked  at  the  ceiling. 
The  Marquis  sat  down  by  her  bed,  and  his  nervous  fingers 
played  with  the  white  fringe  of  the  coverlid. 

'Why  were  you  so  frightened?'  he  asked,  after  a  long 
silence. 

'  I  don't  know  ;  it  is  stronger  than  I  am.' 

'  When  one  is  in  the  Lord's  grace  there  is  no  need  for 
fear,'  he  remarked  sententiously  and  severely.  '  Have  you 
some  mortal  sin  on  your  conscience  ?' 

'  No  ...  I  don't  think  so,  at  least,'  she  said,  hesitating. 

They  kept  silence.  The  Marquis  di  Formosa  looked  into 
the  shadows. 

'Has  the  spirit  come?'  he  asked  afterwards,  in  a 
whispered,  mysterious  tone. 

'  Oh,  do  not  speak  of  that,'  she  said,  sighing  again, 
shutting  her  eyes,  and  hiding  her  face  in  her  hands. 

'  Has  it  come  ?'  he  insisted;  a  gambler's  cruelty  was  raging 
in  him  now. 

'  For  mercy's  sake,  if  you  love  me,  don't  speak  of  that !'  she 
said,  taking  his  hand  and  kissing  it,  so  as  to  move  him 
more. 

'  Tell  me,  has  it  come  ?'  he  again  repeated  implacably. 

She,  feeling  she  could  not  escape  that  persecution,  looked 
despairingly  towards  the  Virgin,  then  hid  her  face  in  the 
pillows. 

'  Tell  me,  tell  me,  if  it  has  come !'  he  cried  out,  bending 
over  the  pillows,  as  if  to  breathe  his  magnetic  curiosity  into 
his  daughter's  face. 

'  No,  it  has  not,'  she  said,  in  a  thread  of  a  voice. 

'  You  are  lying.' 

'  I  am  not.' 

'  You  are  lying.     The  spirit  has  been  here,  I  feel  it.' 


BIANCA  MARIAS  VISION  145 

'  Be  good  to  me ;  say  no  more  about  this,'  she  said, 
trembling  dreadfully. 

'  How  did  you  see  it  ?  Awake  ?  dozing  ?  sleeping  ?  It 
was  a  white  figure,  was  it  not,  with  lowered  eyelids,  but 
smiling  ?  .  .  .  What  did  it  say  to  you  ?  A  very  weak  voice, 
wasn't  it  ?  Something  you  alone  could  have  heard  ?' 

'  Father,  you  want  to  kill  me,'  she  uttered  desolately. 

'These  are  womanly  fears,'  said  he  disdainfully.  '  Who 
ever  died  through  a  communication  from  on  high  ?  The 
meeting  of  soul  and  spirit  is  a  spring  of  life.  Bianca  Maria, 
don't  be  ungrateful,  don't  be  cruel ;  tell  me  all.' 

'  You  are  trying  to  kill  me,'  she  repeated,  desperately  and 
resignedly. 

'  You  are  a  fool !  Do  you  wish  me,  your  father,  to  pray 
to  you  ?  Well,  I  will ;  there  is  nothing  else  to  be  done. 
Children  are  ungrateful  and  wicked  ;  they  give  back  cruelty 
for  our  love.  I  pray  to  you,  Bianca,  I  beg  of  you,  as  if  you 
were  my  patron  saint,  to  tell  me  all.' 

'  I  will  die  of  this,  father,'  she  murmured,  her  voice 
choked  in  the  pillows  that  helped  her  to  curb  her  crying 
and  sobs. 

'  Listen,  Bianca,'  he  went  on  coldly,  keeping  in  his  anger ; 
'  you  must  believe  me.  I  am  a  man,  I  am  sane,  I  am  in 
my  senses,  I  can  reason.  Well,  it  is  an  article  of  faith  with 
me,  as  clear  as  the  light,  as  the  sun,  that  you  have  had  to- 
night, or  will  have,  a  spirit's  apparition.  It  will  come  to 
bless  our  family ;  it  will  tell  you  words  of  happiness.  If 
it  has  come,  so  much  the  better ;  your  duty  as  an  obedient, 
loving  daughter  of  the  House  of  Cavalcanti  is  to  tell  me  all, 
at  once.' 

'  I  know  nothing,'  she  said  dryly. 

'  Do  you  swear  it  ?' 

'  I  swear  that  I  know  nothing.' 

'  Then  this  vision  will  come  in  the  succeeding  hours  of  the 
night.  I  am  going  into  the  chapel,  to  pray.  I  am  a  sinner, 
but  sinners,  too,  can  ask  for  grace.  I  will  pray  that  you 
may  see  and  feel  the  spirit.' 

'  No,  don't  go  away !'  she  cried  out,  getting  up  in  her  bed 
and  catching  hold  of  his  arm  with  a  despairing  clutch. 

'Why  should  I  not  ?' 

'  Don't  go  away,  for  the  love  of  God  !  If  you  have  any 
affection  for  me,  stay  here.' 

'  I  must  go  and  pray,  Bianca,'  he  exclaimed,  carried  away 

10 


146  THE  LAND  OF  COCKA  YNE 

by  excitement,  not  understanding  his  daughter's  convulsive 
state. 

'  No,  no — stay ;  I  can't  be  left  alone  here,  or  I'll  die  of 
fright.'  She  spoke  restlessly,  quite  pallid,  her  trembling 
hands  still  clutching  her  father's  arm.  She  dared  not  look 
round.  With  her  head  down  on  her  breast,  she  shut  her  eyes 
and  bit  her  lips  ;  while  he,  in  his  mad  obstinacy,  looked 
fixedly  at  his  daughter,  thinking  he  saw  in  her  that  spiritual 
disorder  that  must,  by  a  fatality,  go  with  the  great  miracles 
that  have  to  do  with  the  soul. 

'  How  do  you  feel  ?'  he  questioned,  very  deeply  and  in- 
tensely, as  if  he  wished  to  tear  the  truth  from  her  soul. 

'  Stay  here,  stay  here,'  said  she,  her  teeth  chattering  with 
terror. 

'  You  see  something  ?'  he  asked  suggestively,  with  an 
intensity  in  his  voice  and  will  that  was  bound  to  influence 
that  fragile  feminine  frame,  broken  as  it  was  by  the  nervous 
shock. 

'  I  am  afraid  to  see — I  am  afraid  !'  she  said,  very  low, 
leaning  her  forehead  on  her  father's  arm. 

'  Don't  be  afraid,  dear ;  don't  fear,'  he  whispered  tenderly, 
paternally  caressing  her  black  hair. 

'  Be  silent ;  keep  silence,'  said  she,  with  a  quick  shiver. 
She  continued  to  lean  on  his  shoulder,  hiding  her  face, 
shrinking  all  over.  The  Marquis  put  his  arm  round  her 
waist,  to  keep  up  her  quivering,  feeble  body  ;  she  hid  more, 
clinging  to  her  father  as  to  a  raft  of  safety.  He  sometimes 
felt  her  quiver  all  through  her  nerves. 

'  What  is  the  matter  ?'  he  asked  then. 

'  No,  no  !'  she  said,  more  by  gesture  than  voice. 

'  Look,  look — don't  be  frightened,'  suggested  the  deluded 
man. 

'  Be  silent !'  she  answered,  shuddering.  He  held  her  up, 
waiting  with  a  madman's  patience  that  would  wait  for  hours, 
days,  months,  years,  provided  the  truth  of  his  delusion  were 
proved. 

'  Bianca  darling,'  the  Marquis  murmured,  sometimes 
encouraging  her  tenderly.  She  answered  with  a  sigh,  that 
seemed  a  lamenting,  suffering  child's  sob.  Holding  her 
against  his  breast,  Formosa  felt  the  strong  rigidity  of  that 
young  sickly  frame  shaken  by  long  shivers.  When  she 
trembled  all  over,  he  felt  the  rebound.  It  seemed  to  him 
the  implored  revelation  was  imminent.  He  again  said  to 


BIANCA  MAXIA'S  VISION  147 

her,  obstinately,  pitilessly,  '  How  do  you  feel  ?'  She  waved 
her  hand,  in  an  alarmed  way,  as  if  she  wished  to  chase 
away  a  frightful  thought  or  a  dreadful  vision.  What  did 
the  agony  of  that  young  breast  matter  to  him,  the  fatal  want 
of  balance  in  the  nerves  ?  In  that  chilly  virginal  room,  a 
circle  of  light  on  the  ceiling  from  the  Virgin's  lamp  alone 
breaking  the  shadow,  with  the  quivering  form  in  his  arms, 
the  soul  trembling  before  Divine  mysteries,  he  felt  it  a  solemn 
moment ;  time  and  space  were  not.  He,  Formosa,  was 
facing  at  last  the  great  mystery.  From  his  innocent 
daughter's  lips  he  would  know  his  life's  secret,  his  future  : 
the  fatal  ciphers  that  contained  his  fortune — the  spirit  would 
tell  Bianca  Maria  everything,  and  she  would  tell  him. 

'  Bianca,  Bianca,  implore  him  to  come  and  tell  you 
whether  we  are  to  live  or  die.  Pray  to  him,  because  he,  the 
spirit,  comes  forth  from  the  Divine,  to  tell  you  the  divine 
word  ;  pray  to  him,  if  he  is  here  near  you,  or  in  you,  if  he  is 
before  your  eyes  or  your  fancy ;  pray  to  him,  Bianca,  pray 
to  him.  Our  life  is  at  stake.  Save  us,  Bianca,  save  us !'  .  .  . 

He  went  on  speaking,  incoherently,  invoking  the  spirit's 
presence,  addressing  the  wildest,  saddest  prayers  to  her 
and  to  him.  The  girl,  trembling,  shivering,  her  teeth 
chattering  with  terror,  clung  on  her  father's  neck,  like  a 
suffering  child,  fastened  like  a  vice.  She  said  no  more,  but 
it  was  evident  the  hour,  the  surroundings,  and  her  father's 
voice  increased  her  nervousness.  A  stifled  sob  came  from 
her  breast,  and  a  very  faint,  constant  lament,  like  a  dying 
child's,  from  her  lips.  He  spoke  to  her  all  the  time,  but 
when  he  got  more  urgent,  almost  wrathful  in  his  sorrow,  he 
felt  her  arms  twitching  with  despair.  Then  gradually  a 
change  came.  To  begin  with,  Bianca's  hands  and  forehead 
were,  as  usual,  icy  cold ;  she  was  so  bloodless,  she  had  lost 
her  vital  heat.  Indeed,  in  that  spasm  the  deluded  old  man 
had  felt  that  her  whole  body  was  frozen.  Suddenly,  at 
intervals,  when  her  teeth  stopped  chattering  and  her  arms 
relaxed  through  debility,  he  felt  a  slight  heat  rising  under 
the  skin  on  her  hands  and  up  to  her  forehead.  It  seemed 
a  current  of  heat  spreading  all  through  her  young  body, 
which  filled  her  impoverished  veins  with  warm  blood,  and 
made  her  forehead  and  hands  burn.  He  heard  her  breathing 
get  more  distressed ;  sometimes  her  breast  rose  with  a  long 
sigh,  as  if  she  needed  air.  Twice  he  tried  to  put  her  head 
down  on  the  pillow,  but  she  gave  a  frightened  shiver. 

IO — 2 


I48  THE  LAND  OF  COCKA  YNE 

'  Don't  leave  me  alone,  for  the  love  of  God !'  she  stam- 
mered, like  a  baby. 

'  I  won't  leave  you.  Tell  me  what  you  see,'  he  repeated, 
indomitable  and  implacable. 

'  It  is  dreadful,  dreadful !'  Bianca  stammered,  going  on 
trembling,  trembling  as  if  she  had  the  body  of  an  old  woman 
of  seventy. 

'  What  is  dreadful  ?  Speak,  Bianca,  tell  me  everything ; 
tell  me  what  you  have  seen.' 

'  Oh  !'  lamented  she  despondingly. 

Now  the  teeth  had  given  up  chattering,  her  short  breath- 
ing came  from  her  throat  faintly,  she  burnt  all  over,  and  her 
quick  respiration  scorched  her  father's  neck  where  her  head 
leant ;  besides  this,  her  temples  and  pulse  beat  rapidly,  but 
her  father,  possessed  altogether  by  his  madness,  in  the 
mysterious  half-light  of  that  chilly  night,  close  to  the  poor 
drowsy  soul  in  the  tortured  body,  lost  all  sense  of  realities. 
His  sick  fancy  keenly  enjoyed  the  hour's  drama,  without 
taking  in  how  cruel  it  was.  He  was  quivering  with  joy, 
indeed,  as  he  believed  the  great  moment  of  the  spirit's  reve- 
lation had  come ;  the  fortunes  of  the  House  of  Cavalcanti 
were  to  be  decided  that  moment.  His  daughter's  uneasiness, 
terror,  spasms,  broken  words,  were  easily  explained  ;  it  was 
the  Favour  drawing  near.  So  much  time,  so  long  had  gone 
by  in  unhappiness  and  wretchedness  ;  now  all  was  to  be 
changed.  To-morrow  he  and  his  daughter  would  be  rich — 
have  millions !  Oppressed  and  uneasy,  Bianca  Maria  had 
slid  down  from  her  father's  breast  on  to  the  pillows ;  her 
whistling  breath  was  very  audible,  her  eyes  shone  curiously. 
Nailed  to  the  spot  by  his  unhealthy  curiosity,  the  Marquis 
stood  by  the  bed,  watching  his  daughter's  every  movement 
by  the  lamp-light,  struck  down  as  she  was  on  that  bed  of 
sorrow.  Suddenly,  as  if  by  an  electric  shock,  her  hands 
clutched  the  coverlet  wildly ;  a  hoarse  cry  came  from  her 
throat. 

'  What  is  it  ?'  the  Marquis  cried  out,  shaken  also. 

'  It  is  the  spirit — the  spirit !'  she  stammered,  her  voice 
changed  to  a  deep  cavernous  tone. 

'  Where  is  it  ?'  the  father  said  in  a  whisper. 

'In  the  doorway!  Look  at  it;  it  is  there!'  she  said 
firmly  and  forcibly,  staring  at  the  door. 

« I  see  nothing — nothing  !  I  am  a  poor  sinner  !'  Formosa 
cried  out  despairingly. 


BIANCA  MARIAS  VISION  149 

'  The  spirit  is  there,'  she  whispered,  as  if  she  heard 
nothing. 

'  How  is  it  clad  ?  What  is  it  doing  ?  What  does  it  say  ? 
Bianca,  Bianca,  pray  to  it !' 

'  It  is  clad  in  white  ...  it  does  not  move  ...  it  says 
nothing  .  .  .'  she  murmured  in  a  dreamy  way. 

'  Implore  him — implore  him  to  speak  to  you.  You  are 
free  from  sin,  Bianca.' 

'  It  does  not  speak  ...  it  will  not  speak  !' 

'Bianca,  pray  in  God's  name,  by  His  strength  and 
power.' 

They  kept  silence.  The  Marquis  di  Formosa  kept  his 
whole  attention  on  the  door  where  his  daughter  alone  saw 
the  spirit,  his  whole  soul  in  prayer.  She  lay  still  more 
restless ;  her  burning  hands  clutched  the  folds  of  the  sheet 
between  her  fingers. 

'  What  does  it  say  ?' 

'  It  says  nothing.' 

'  But  why  will  it  not  speak  ?  Why  has  it  come  if  it  will 
not  speak  ?' 

'  It  does  not  answer  me,'  she  replied,  still  in  the  same 
voice  that  seemed  to  come  from  a  distance. 

'  But  what  is  it  doing  ?' 

'  It  looks  at  me  .  .  .  looks  at  me  steadily  .  .  .  the  eyes 
are  so  sad,  so  sad.  It  looks  pityingly  at  me,  just  as  if  I  were 
dead.  Am  I  dead,  then  ?' 

'  Now  it  will  go  away  without  telling  you  anything !' 
Formosa  shouted  out.  '  Ask  him  what  numbers  come  out 
to-morrow.' 

She  gave  an  agonized  moan. 

'  I  think  it  is  weeping  now,  as  if  I  were  dead  ;  it  looks  so 
to  me.  Tears  fall  down  its  cheeks.' 

'Tears,  sixty-five,'  Formosa  said  to  himself,  as  if  he 
feared  someone  would  hear  him. 

'  It  raises  its  hand  to  greet  me.  .  .  .' 

'  Look  how  many  fingers  it  lifts — look  well ;  make  no 
mistake.' 

'  Three  fingers.     It  bows  to  me  ;  it  wants  to  go  away.  .  .  .' 

'  Tell  him  to  come  back  ;  pray  him  to — pray.  .  .  .' 

'  He  signs  "yes,"  '  Bianca  Maria  went  on  after  a  pause. 
'  It  is  going  away — it  has  gone ;  it  has  disappeared.  .  .  .' 

'  Let  us  praise  God  !'  Formosa  cried  out,  kneeling  at  the 
foot  of  the  bed.  'The  fingers  three,  the  hand  five,  tears 


ISO  THE  LAND  OF  COCKAYNE 

sixty-five  ;  we  must  find  out  the  number  for  the  dead  girl. 
Let  us  thank  God  !' 

'  Yes,  yes,'  the  girl  murmured  in  a  queer  tone ;  '  we  must 
find  out  the  number  for  the  dead  girl — we  must  find 
out.  .  .  .' 

'  We  will  find  out,'  exclaimed  Formosa,  laughing  like  a 
madman. 

He  thought  no  more  about  his  daughter,  who  was  now  in 
a  state  of  high  fever  with  the  violence  of  the  effimere,  that 
carries  off  a  life  in  twenty-four  hours.  She  panted,  drinking 
in  the  air  with  her  open  mouth,  like  a  dying  bird.  The  blood 
beat  so  wildly  in  her  veins  it  seemed  it  would  burst  them  ; 
her  whole  slender  form  burned  like  red-hot  iron.  But  the 
Marquis  di  Formosa  only  felt  a  youthful  impatience  ;  he 
had  gone  twice  to  the  window  to  see  if  day  was  breaking. 
No ;  he  had  still  some  hours  to  wait  before  he  could  play 
the  spirit's  numbers.  It  occurred  to  him  he  had  no  more 
money.  How  could  he  play  ?  Not  a  franc.  It  was  a  cruel 
thing,  this  continual  thirst  nothing  could  satisfy.  But  he 
would  find  the  money,  if  he  had  to  sell  the  last  of  his 
furniture  and  pawn  himself.  He  would  get  it,  by  Gad  ! 
now  he  had  got  the  revelation — now  the  ministering  spirit 
had  deigned  to  enter  his  house.  His  fortune  was  in  his 
hands  ;  he  would  put  everything  on  the  spirit's  numbers. 

'  Oh,  Ecce  Homo !  Ecce  Homo  of  Cavalcanti  House !  it 
was  you  did  us  this  favour.  A  new  chapel  must  be  added 
for  you,  and  four  lamps  of  massive  silver,  always  kept  lit,  in 
remembrance  of  what  you  have  done  for  us.'  The  Ecce 
Homo  would  help  him  to  get  the  money  too.  Good  and 
powerful  Ecce  Homo,  the  family  protector,  give  money — 
money  to  gamble  with  ! 

Overmastered  by  his  fervent,  passionate  thoughts,  the 
Marquis  di  Formosa  spoke  aloud,  gesticulating  with  his 
hands  through  his  hair,  wandering  about  the  room  like  a 
madman. 

Bianca  Maria  went  on  raving  in  a  whisper,  because  her 
breath  was  failing,  softly,  vaguely  speaking  of  Maria  degli 
Angioli,  or  with  deep  melancholy  of  a  fresh,  laughing,  green 
country  place  she  would  like  to  live  in,  down  there  far,  far 
off.  But  the  old  man,  carried  away  by  his  thoughts,  no 
longer  listened  to  her,  and  as  the  cold  dawn  of  March  burst 
forth,  two  deliriums  were  confused  together  in  that  room — 
father's  and  daughter's  tragically. 


BIANCA  MARIAS  VISION  151 

In  the  livid  cold  light  of  dawn  the  Marquis  di  Formosa 
wandered  in  a  shaky  way,  with  wild-looking  eyes  and  pallid 
face,  through  his  flat,  searching  his  empty  drawers  and  sparse 
furniture  for  something  to  sell  or  pawn.  He  found  nothing. 
He  opened  the  drawers  with  trembling  hands  again,  and 
groped  in  them,  shaking  them  hard,  then  he  looked  around 
with  madness  in  his  gaze,  thinking  he  would  like  to  sell  or 
pawn  the  bare  walls  of  the  house  that  had  once  been  his. 
Nothing,  nothing !  Little  by  little,  eaten  up  by  the  lottery, 
valuable  jewels  had  disappeared,  heavy  antique  and  modern 
silver  plate,  pictures  by  great  masters,  precious  books, 
artistic  rarities  in  bronze,  ivory,  carved  wood — the  house 
was  stripped,  only  the  furniture  that  it  would  have  been 
disgraceful  to  part  with  was  left.  Alas !  nothing  could  be 
found  to  turn  into  money  so  as  to  play  the  spirit's  number. 
He  wrung  his  hands  despairingly ;  he  had  left  Bianca  Maria 
in  a  feverish,  oppressed  stupor,  a  few  confused  words  still 
came  from  her  lips,  and  the  servants  were  still  sleeping. 
He  even  went  into  the  chapel,  wildly ;  but  the  lamps 
burning  there  were  brass.  He  had  bought  the  altar  vases 
himself  when  he  sold  the  real  silver  ones,  and  had  got 
imitation  silver  instead.  He  thought  a  moment  of  taking 
the  silver  crown  from  the  Virgin's  head,  and  the  seven 
swords  in  her  heart  that  represent  the  great  agonized 
Mother's  sorrows,  but  a  mysterious  dread  restrained  him. 

He  went  out  without  being  able  to  say  a  prayer  even,  the 
night's  delusion  and  Saturday  morning's  feverish  haste 
held  him  so  strongly  that  dawn.  He  thought  who  he  could 
borrow  money  from,  but  could  not  find  anyone ;  he  held  his 
beating  temples  to  keep  his  thoughts  together,  so  as  to  get 
what  he  wanted.  All  friends  of  his  own  rank  and  his  great 
relations  kept  away  from  him  after  his  wife's  death ;  but 
only  after  he  had  laid  them  all  under  contribution  for  his 
gambling.  His  present  friends  ?  They  were  all  gamblers, 
all  making  desperate  attempts  that  morning  to  go  on  staking ; 
they  would  certainly  not  lend  money — each  one  thought  of 
himself,  looked  out  for  himself.  New  friends  ?  That  passion 
prevented  him  from  finding  any,  except  that  morbid  set  of 
madmen,  damned  like  himself.  A  great  deal  of  money  was 
needed,  as  the  spirit  had  deigned  to  reveal  himself ;  a  fortune 
must  be  made  that  day  or  never.  Suddenly  a  flash  of  light 
struck  him  :  a  name  came  to  his  mind.  He  could  give  him 
the  money ;  he  was  a  man  of  honour  ;  he  had  a  lot  of  money ; 


1 52  THE  LAND  OF  COCKAYNE 

he  would  not  refuse  a  Formosa  a  small  loan.  While  he 
wrote  to  Dr.  Antonio  Amati  at  his  desk,  on  a  leaf  torn  from 
a  book  full  of  ciphers,  he  thought  he  need  not  feel  ashamed 
to  ask  a  loan  from  a  stranger,  for  he  would  give  it  back  that 
very  evening.  After  he  had  written,  one  thought  made  him 
tremble  :  if  Amati  said  '  No '  ?  He  was  a  mere  acquaint- 
ance, a  stranger ;  money  hardens  all  hearts. 

'Take  this  letter  to  Dr.  Amati,  and  bring  the  answer 
back,'  he  said  to  Giovanni,  who  came  in,  hardly  awake,  on 
being  rung  for. 

'  He  will  be  asleep.  .  .  .' 

1  Take  it !'  Formosa  ordered.  He  bit  his  lips,  certain  now 
that  Amati  would  refuse  ;  he  felt  a  blush  of  shame  come  to 
his  cheek.  But  he  must  have  money — he  must,  at  whatever 
cost !  He  flung  himself  in  the  easy-chair,  looking  at  the 
ciphers  on  bits  of  paper  scattered  on  the  desk  without 
seeing  them  ;  he  felt  overcome  by  that  irrepressible  rage  of 
his  ruling  passion,  at  war  with  realities. 

'  When  he  awakes  he  will  give  the  answer,'  said  Giovanni, 
coming  in,  silently  waiting  his  master's  orders. 

'  Giovanni,  give  me  the  rest  of  the  money  you  have,'  said 
Formosa  sullenly. 

'  I  haven't  got  any,  sir,'  the  other  answered,  shaking  all 
over. 

'  Don't  tell  lies ;  you  have  other  fifty  francs.  Give  me 
them  at  once.  .  .  .' 

'  My  lord,  I  took  the  loan  of  it  from  a  money-lender.  I 
must  give  it  back  at  so  much  a  week ;  don't  take  it  from 
me.  .  .  .' 

'  That  does  not  matter  to  me,'  Formosa  said  haughtily. 

'  Don't  take  it  from  me,  my  lord.  If  you  knew  what  it 
was  needed  for.  .  .  .' 

'  It  does  not  matter  to  me !'  the  Marquis  said  fiercely. 
'  Give  me  the  fifty  francs.  .  .  .' 

'  They  are  for  getting  food  for  her  ladyship.  .  .  .' 

'  That  does  not  matter  to  me !'  Formosa  yelled. 

'  As  that  is  so,  I  obey,'  said  the  old  servant  despairingly, 
and  he  took  out  the  other  fifty-franc  note.  The  Marquis 
snatched  at  it  like  a  thief,  and  put  it  quickly  in  his  pocket. 

'  Your  wife  has  money,  too ;  get  it  from  her,'  Formosa 
went  on  again  coldly. 

'  Where  could  my  wife  get  it  ?' 

'  She  has  some.     Make  her  give  it  to  you,  and  bring  it 


BIANCA  MARIA'S  VISION  153 

here.  Spare  me  a  scene.  If  your  wife  denies  it,  you  can 
leave  the  house  at  once,  both  of  you.' 

'  No,  my  lord — no  ;  I  am  going  at  once,'  said  the  servant 
humbly. 

But  a  scene  followed  in  there ;  there  was  long,  agitated 
talk  between  the  husband  and  wife.  The  woman  did  not 
wish  to  let  her  money  be  carried  off;  she  cried,  wept,  and 
sobbed.  Silence  at  last,  and  then  a  moaning. 

Giovanni  came  in  again,  with  his  old  face  distorted,  and 
bent  more,  as  if  struck  by  paralysis.  As  he  put  another  fifty 
francs  down  on  the  desk,  silently,  his  eyes  red  with  the  rare, 
burning  tears  of  old  age,  the  Marquis  was  so  struck  by  his  ap- 
pearance that  he  suddenly  relented,  and  said  good-naturedly  : 

'  It  is  three  hundred  francs,  between  yesterday  evening 
and  to-day.  This  evening  you  will  get  it  all.' 

'  How  am  I  to  get  to-day's  dinner  ?' 

'  I  will  see  about  it — at  four  o'clock,'  the  Marquis  said 
vaguely. 

'  Her  ladyship  is  ill ;  she  will  want  a  little  soup  this 
evening,'  the  servant  muttered. 

Then,  searching  his  pockets,  with  a  miserly  grimace,  the 
Marquis  di  Formosa  gave  three  francs  to  the  man,  following 
them  with  a  greedy  look. 

There  was  a  knock.  Formosa  started.  It  was  Dr.  Amati's 
answer.  It  did  not  matter  now  if  he  said  <  No.'  But  as  he 
got  the  envelope  in  his  hands,  he  knew  by  touch  that  the 
money  he  wanted  was  there,  and,  red  with  delight,  he  put  the 
envelope  in  his  pocket  without  opening  it.  He  went  out 
now,  at  eight  in  the  morning,  as  if  carried  by  an  irresistible 
breath  of  wind ;  he  went  without  turning  back  to  look  at 
his  sick  child,  his  bare  house,  his  weeping  servants,  who 
had  given  him  everything,  the  neighbour  whose  visits  he 
had  not  paid  for,  and  yet  dared  to  ask  a  loan  of  money 
from — he  went  off,  taking  three  hundred  and  fifty  francs 
with  him,  to  put  it  all  on  the  spirit's  numbers,  while  he 
had  left  his  poor  old  servants  fasting,  and  had  haggled  over 
a  little  soup  for  Bianca  Maria.  No  one  in  the  house  saw 
him  again  till  mid-day.  His  daughter  lay  in  bed,  in  a  burning 
fever,  breathing  with  difficulty,  often  asking  for  something 
to  drink — nothing  else.  Margherita  sat  down  by  the  bed, 
saying  the  Rosary  over  to  herself  to  pass  the  time.  She 
often  put  her  hand  on  the  invalid's  forehead,  alarmed  at  its 
being  so  hot.  The  sick  girl  said  nothing  ;  she  was  sleeping, 


154  THE  LAND  OF  COCKAYNE 

breathing  uneasily.  Suddenly,  opening  her  eyes,  she  said 
distinctly  to  Margherita : 

'  Call  the  doctor  to  me.' 

'  He  won't  be  at  home  now.' 

'When  he  comes  back,  then.'    And  she  shut  her  eyes  again. 

The  doctor  only  came  at  half-past  four.  He  stood  at  the 
door  of  the  little  room,  scenting  the  feverish  air. 

'  You  might  have  called  me  before,'  he  said  to  Margherita 
roughly. 

'  Oh,  sir,  if  I  could  tell  you ' 

He  told  her  to  hold  her  tongue.  The  invalid  was  looking 
at  him,  her  lovely,  gentle  eyes  wide  open,  her  hand  held  out 
to  him.  The  strong  man,  with  the  massive  head,  the  good- 
natured,  ugly  face,  got  a  look  of  great  tenderness  before  the 
fragile  creature  Affection  welled  up  from  his  heart.  He 
felt  at  once  that  the  fever  would  soon  be  over :  it  was 
falling  already,  with  the  suddenness  of  malaria ;  but  the 
thorn  of  that  miserable  existence,  trembling  between  life 
and  death,  victim  of  a  disease  he  could  not  find  out  the 
meaning  of,  would  stay  in  his  heart. 

'  Now  I  am  going  to  order  a  medicine  for  you,'  he  said 
gently  to  the  sick  girl,  holding  her  hand  in  his. 

'  No,  do  not,'  she  said  softly. 

'  Don't  you  want  any  ?' 

'Listen,  listen!'  she  said,  pulling  him  to  her  to  let  him 
hear  better — '  take  me  away !'  She  trembled  as  she  said 
this,  and  Antonio,  paling  suddenly,  struck  by  an  inde- 
scribable emotion,  could  not  even  answer.  '  Take  me 
away  !'  she  added  humbly,  as  if  imploring  him. 

'  Yes,  dear — dear,'  he  stammered  ;  '  wherever  you  like — 
at  once.' 

'To  the  country — far  off,'  the  poor  thing  whispered, 
'  where  one  sees  no  ghosts  in  fever,  where  there  are  no 
shadows  nor  frightful  spectres.' 

'  What  do  you  say  ?'  said  he,  surprised. 

'  Nothing  ;  take  me  away  to  the  country,  to  greenness 
and  peace  with  your  mother  .  .  .  before  God.' 

'  Oh  dear,  dear  !'  He  could  say  nothing  else,  this  great 
man,  in  the  supreme  emotion,  the  sweetness  of  the  idyll. 

'  Far  away  take  me,'  she  still  whispered,  looking  at  him 
with  great,  good  eyes. 

Alone,  very  sweetly  and  modestly,  they  spoke  of  love 
without  using  words. 


CHAPTER  X 

MAY   AND    SAN     GENNARO's    MIRACLE 

GENTLE  April  opened  all  the  flowers  in  the  gardens, 
terraces,  and  balconies  in  Naples  ;  wherever  there  was  a 
little  earth  warmed  by  the  sun,  bedewed  with  rime,  a 
flower  sprang  up.  Common,  uncultivated,  popular  flowers, 
quite  a  humble  flora  without  refinements,  having  no  ex- 
quisite colouring  or  scents,  but  bright,  warm,  bursting  from 
the  earth  with  profuse  vegetation  and  plump,  full  petals. 
April  made  the  big,  sweet-smelling,  blood-red  roses  blossom, 
and  the  pinks,  beloved  of  the  people — white,  pink,  varie- 
gated— written  on  as  they  poetically  call  them,  as  if  these 
stripes  were  mystic  words ;  then  single  and  double  stocks — 
white,  yellow,  red — that  the  town  girls  love  ;  they  grow  them 
on  the  damp  north  balconies  of  Foria  Street ;  and  the 
mallow  with  green,  perfumed  leaves  and  little  pink  flowers ; 
but  above  all,  everywhere,  roses  and  pinks — magnificent, 
velvety,  almost  arrogant  roses,  and  rich,  close  pinks  burst- 
ing their  green  envelope. 

In  the  damp,  dark  squares  of  the  low-lying  quarters,  from 
Santa  Maria  la  Nova  to  Porto  Piazzetta,  from  San  Giovanni 
Maggiore  to  Santi  Apostoli,  in  all  these  half-popular  and 
cloistral,  middle-class  and  archeological  quarters,  rose-sellers 
wandered  about ;  some  queer-looking  hawkers  with  big 
baskets  full  of  cut  roses  or  slips,  the  root  wrapped  in  a 
cabbage-leaf,  giving  such  pathetic  drawn-out  cries  that  they 
reached  the  hearts  of  sentimental  girls.  The  rose-girl  comes 
into  one  of  these  little  squares  that  are  always  soaking, 
dripping  with  dirty,  black  water,  puts  the  basket  on  the 
ground,  and  sings  on  in  a  melancholy,  drawn-out  voice  : 
'  Roses,  lovely  roses  !'  Then  women's  heads  stick  out  of 
shops,  balconies  and  gateways,  attracted  by  the  long,  sad 
chant,  full  of  melancholy,  almost  painful,  voluptuousness. 

Whoever  has  a  few  sous,  or  only  one,  buys  these  roses, 
the  slips  for  the  balconies,  or  cut  ones  to  put  before  the 


r 56  THE  LAND  OF  COCKAYNE 

Virgin,  and  to  scatter,  when  faded,  in  the  linen  drawers.  The 
girl,  having  sold  part  of  her  merchandise,  lifts  the  basket  on 
her  head,  and  goes  off,  taking  up  her  melancholy  cry  in  the 
distance,  dwelling  on  the  roses'  beauty. 

That  warm  May-day  all  the  seamstresses  going  errands, 
who  found  their  lovers  by  chance  at  the  street  corners, 
carried  a  rose  in  their  hands  ;  all  the  common  folk  walking 
about  in  the  narrow  streets  round  Forcella  wore  pinks  on 
their  white  muslin  camisoles  ;  the  children  out  from  school 
playing  in  the  streets  had  flowers  ;  even  the  servants  had 
flowers  on  their  market  -  baskets,  laid  on  the  provisions 
wrapped  in  a  white  towel. 

Really,  poetic  sentiment  was  not  the  only  reason  that 
scattered  flowers  everywhere  —  at  the  street  corners,  in 
women  and  children's  hands,  on  washing  baskets,  flour-sacks, 
fruit  and  tomatoes,  in  the  big  frying  shops  at  Purgatorio  ad 
Arco,  and  the  old-clothes  shops  at  Anticaglia ;  it  was  the 
quantity  one  could  get  for  a  penny :  for  a  smile,  a  word,  and 
flowers  are  so  precious  to  humble  folk,  who  love  colour 
and  are  intoxicated  with  the  slightest  perfume.  May-day ! 
In  that  noonday  sun  many  dull,  gloomy  houses  of  Trinita 
Maggiore,  Forcella,  Tribunali,  San  Sebastiano,  San  Pietro 
a  Maiella  Streets,  besides  the  flowers  in  the  balconies,  had 
put  bright-coloured  flags,  old  red  damasks,  yellow,  bright, 
buttercup  curtains,  blue  silk  hangings  edged  with  gold  and 
silver,  and  many  coloured  stuffs,  kept  up  in  boxes  for  years, 
outside  the  railings  for  drapery. 

The  people  that  live  in  these  tall,  black,  melancholy 
palaces,  that  only  get  the  sun  on  the  terraces,  are  patricians 
of  old  clerical  families,  very  devout  and  pious,  under  the 
influence  of  all  the  great  old  churches  around :  the  Gesu 
Nuovo,  Santa  Chiara,  San  Domenico  Maggiore,  San  Gio- 
vanni Maggiore,  Pietra  Santa,  the  Sacramentiste,  the  Giro- 
lomini,  San  Severe,  Donna  Regina ;  and  finally  the  influence 
of  the  old  minster,  the  grand  cathedral,  so  old,  they  say,  it 
was  a  temple  of  the  Sun  in  Naples'  pagan  times — or,  rather, 
its  early  pagan  times.  There  are  rich,  stern  old  middle-class 
families  also  in  the  high,  dark  houses  who  keep  up  the 
customs  of  their  citizen  forefathers,  and  have  rigid  monastic 
tendencies.  These  people,  that  bright  May-day,  had  taken 
out  of  camphored  chests  silk  draperies  they  had  bought  at 
the  great  factory  Ferdinand  of  Bourbon  set  up  at  Terra  di 
Lavoro,  or  from  San  Leucio,  with  its  bright,  gay  factories, 


MAY  AND  SAN  GENNARVS  MIRACLE  157 

for  weddings  and  baptisms  held  in  their  private  chapels  and 
oratories.  A  pious  folk,  that  inherits  faith  in  its  blood,  they 
are  born,  live,  and  die  without  doubting  for  a  moment. 
They  put  all  the  repressed  strength  of  fancy  into  that 
grand  mystic  dream  that  rises  from  the  terrors  of  Hell  to 
the  supreme  ecstasies  of  Paradise,  having  a  horror  of  Pur- 
gatory, as  if  the  flesh  felt  its  warm  flames ;  and,  dreaming 
and  dreaming  on,  they  come  to  the  last  moment  with  eyes 
shut  in  invincible  hope. 

Besides  the  May  roses  and  the  hedge  of  pinks  blooming 
on  the  balconies,  in  spite  of  want  of  sun,  these  pious  folk 
had  put  out  for  rejoicings  this  May-day  their  brocades, 
damasks,  and  watered  silks.  May-day !  The  darkness  of 
old  Naples'  streets  was  brightened  up  by  that  general  wealth 
of  sweet-smelling  flowers,  with  petals  scattered  on  the  gray 
Vesuvian  lava  stones ;  and  there  being  so  many  flowers 
everywhere,  it  seemed  the  sun  must  be  there  too.  Its 
presence  was  felt  up  there,  where  the  two  narrow  lines  of 
tall  palaces  ended  in  a  clear  streak  of  soft  blue  sky — spring's 
thin  azure.  It  seemed  as  if  a  white  sun  was  down  in  these 
narrow  openings,  Tribunali  and  Forcella  Streets,  because  so 
many  coloured  stuffs,  such  vivid  draperies,  waved  from  the 
balconies,  windows,  and  terraces.  In  San  Domenico  Mag- 
giore  Square,  especially,  the  ancient  De  Sangro  and  Carig- 
liano  Palaces  had  magnificent  brocades ;  even  San  Severe 
Palace,  that  hides  in  a  dark  lane  its  gloomy  vestibule, 
was  dazzling  with  ancient  stuffs.  The  fresh  flowers  in  the 
shops,  in  the  tiny  balconies  of  poor  houses  that  come  by 
turns  in  old  Naples  with  magnates'  palaces,  on  the  flat  roofs 
and  terraces,  out  in  the  air,  between  earth  and  heaven ;  the 
flowers  carried  by  women,  children,  humble  working  people, 
artisans,  beggars  even— fresh  flowers — formed  the  people's 
festival  in  honour  of  Naples'  protector.  That  was  the  ex- 
planation, too,  of  the  silk  draperies,  the  gold  and  silver 
damasks,  the  tapestries ;  it  was  all  the  tribute  of  the  old 
Naples'  nobility  and  burghers  to  Naples'  great  patron. 

May-day  is  lovely  in  Naples,  from  the  air's  caressing 
breath,  from  the  vivid  streak  of  blue  sky  that  manages  to 
make  the  darkest,  most  villainous  streets  gay.  May-day  is 
lovely,  from  the  roses  that  bloom  on  all  sides,  seeming  to 
grow  from  women  and  children's  hands  even,  as  well  as  all 
the  common  garden  and  field  flowers.  It  is  miracle-working 
San  Gennaro's  day.  It  is  on  May-day  his  relics  are  carried 


158  THE  LAND  OF  COCKAYNE 

from  the  cathedral  crypts — called  Succorpo,  or  San  Gennaro's 
Treasury — to  Santa  Chiara  Church,  so  that  the  saint  may 
deign,  on  the  prayers  of  the  people,  to  do  the  miracle  of 
liquefying  his  blood.  The  Bishop  of  Pozzuoli's  head,  which 
was  cut  off  by  the  executioner's  axe,  is  set  in  an  old  gold 
mask.  It  bears  the  Bishop's  mitre,  enriched  with  precious 
stones,  and  sparkles  with  a  thousand  fires.  The  other  relic 
is  the  coagulated  blood,  kept  in  a  very  fine  crystal  phial : 
through  the  cold  dark  clot  of  blood  a  straw  is  visible,  going 
across  it  and  immovable.  It  was  gathered  by  pious  folk 
present  at  the  Bishop's  martyrdom,  and  religiously  preserved. 
This  is  the  day,  the  fourth  of  the  flowery,  sweet-smelling 
May  calends,  that  these  relics  go,  borne  in  triumphant  pro- 
cession, from  the  cathedral  to  Santa  Chiara  Church. 

Now,  that  year  188-  it  seemed  as  if  the  flower  of  faith  grew 
more  vigorously  in  the  people's  heart — that  devotion  to  the 
city's  patron  burst  forth  more  brightly ;  for  since  two  in  the 
afternoon  the  crowd  had  been  rushing  along  to  old  Naples, 
obstructing  the  narrow  streets,  lanes  and  blind  alleys.  San 
Gennaro  is  profoundly  popular  in  Naples,  much — a  hundred 
thousand  times — more  than  the  real  first  Bishop  of  Naples, 
Sant'  Aspreno.  But  who  remembers  him  ?  He  is  one  of  the 
forgotten  ones  of  the  martyrology,  which  has  its  shipwrecks 
in  the  sea  of  oblivion,  such  as  happen  in  other  seas. 

Sant'  Aspreno's  little  church  stands  in  a  lane  in  the  Porto 
quarter,  and  is  underground ;  one  goes  down  thirty  steps, 
below  the  level  of  the  soil ;  it  is  merely  an  oratory,  rude,  dark, 
damp,  and  alarming,  where  Sant'  Aspreno's  stick  is  adored, 
the  pastoral  staff  of  Naples'  first  pastor.  But  who  goes  to 
Sant'  Aspreno's  ?  A  few  devout  people  and  some  lovers  of 
archaeological  things.  San  Gennaro,  before  all  the  other 
saints — before  Sant'  Anna,  the  powerful  old  woman,  or  San 
Giuseppe,  the  patron  of  a  good  death,  next  in  order  to  the 
Immaculate  Virgin  and  the  Eternal  Father,  who  are  wor- 
shipped in  Santa  Chiara.  San  Gennaro  has  the  devotion  of 
all  lowly  Neapolitan  hearts  to  himself.  Above  all,  he  was  a 
Neapolitan,  born  in  that  black,  evil-smelling  quarter,  Molo 
Piccolo,  where  it  seems  his  descendants  still  live,  and  take 
great  pride  in  such  an  ancestor.  He  came  of  Naples  common 
folk,  and  his  family  consists  of  some  old  working- women,  who 
spend  their  time  between  work  and  prayer,  carrying  out  the 
spiritual  life — trying,  at  least,  to  reach  their  great  ancestor's 
perfection  in  piety.  Glorious  San  Gennaro,  the  Bishop  who 


MAY  AND  SAN  GENNARffS  MIRACLE  159 

suffered  martyrdom  !  His  head  was  cut  off  by  infidels  at  Poz- 
zuoli,  on  a  great  marble  stone,  which  is  still  preserved  :  it  has 
a  large  scar,  and  three  streaks  of  blood  running  down  ;  the 
severed  head,  being  cast  into  the  sea,  swam  from  Pozzuoli  to 
Naples,  the  face  keeping  a  deathly  pallor  from  loss  of  blood. 
Nor  from  that  day  that  the  saint's  head  was  picked  up 
and  preserved,  and  the  coagulated  blood  put  into  a  phial,  to 
this,  has  the  saint  ever  ceased  to  protect  Naples.  In  the 
maritime  suburb,  on  the  Maddalena  Bridge,  where  the  little 
stream  Sebeto  has  to  go  under  a  stone  arch,  the  patron 
saint's  statue  in  marble  looks  at  Vesuvius  close  at  hand,  and 
stands  with  two  fingers  raised  in  a  commanding  attitude. 
By  that  gesture  the  saint  has  prevented  lava  from  coming 
into  Naples  during  Vesuvius'  tremendous  eruptions ;  never 
will  the  lava  dare  to  pass  that  limit.  San  Gennaro,  with 
uplifted  finger,  says  :  '  Thou  shalt  go  no  further  !'  From  the 
most  ancient  times,  twice  a  year — in  soft  September,  when 
his  name-day  occurs,  and  in  flowery  May — San  Gennaro 
does  the  miracle  of  liquefying  his  blood  before  the  people. 
Whilst  here  at  Naples  the  blood  in  the  phial  boils  up, 
making  the  straw  fixed  in  the  cold,  dry  clot  move  about,  in 
Pozzuoli  the  blood  on  the  marble  block  gets  fresh  and 
bright ;  and  whoso  standing  on  the  shore  has  the  eyes  of 
faith  sees  the  saint's  livid,  cut-off  head  floating  in.  The 
miracle  is  repeated  twice  every  year.  When  it  is  later  than 
the  usual  hour,  it  is  a  bad  sign  ;  it  means  a  bad  year  :  if  he 
were  not  to  do  the  miracle  .  .  .  but  the  patron  saint  could 
not  forsake  his  faithful  city.  In  eruptions,  epidemics,  earth- 
quakes, his  hand  is  always  raised  to  mitigate  and  overcome 
the  scourge.  All  the  common  people  have  their  own  legends 
about  him,  besides  the  great  legend  of  the  miracles.  The 
great  saint  was  a  Naples  man,  poor,  of  the  people  ;  there 
has  not  been  a  king,  a  prince  or  great  lord  who  has  visited 
San  Gennaro's  chapel  without  adding  a  splendid  gift  to  the 
patron's  wealth.  Naples'  common  folk,  to  cry  up  their  saint, 
go  about  saying  proudly  and  tenderly,  '  Even  Vittorio  !  Even 
Vittorio!'  which  means  that  the  great  King  Victor  Emmanuel 
also  brought  his  gift  to  the  patron  saint.  In  former  days 
there  were  knights  of  San  Gennaro,  and  his  treasury  was 
guarded  with  hierarchal  pomp  ;  the  keys  were  under  a 
solemn  trust.  There  are  no  longer  any  knights  ;  indeed, 
the  order  is  abolished,  and  the  old  patrician  pomp  is  rather 
diminished.  But  what  of  that  ?  The  saint  is  stronger  than 


i6o 

ever,  powerful,  miracle-working,  safe  in  the  people's  heart 
as  in  an  inviolable  tabernacle. 

That  year  the  people's  love  for  San  Gennaro  came  out 
stronger  than  ever,  as  if  a  new  rush  of  faith  had  fortified 
their  souls.  At  a  certain  hour  the  traffic  through  Forcella 
and  Tribunali  was  stopped  ;  all  who  were  leaving  Naples  or 
arriving  had  to  make  a  long  round  to  the  station  by  Marina 
or  Foria  Road.  The  cabman  told  any  annoyed  fare  who 
asked  the  reason  of  the  endless  journey,  '  It  was  San 
Gennaro ';  and  touched  his  hat  with  his  whip  in  compliment 
to  the  saint.  He  tried  to  hurry  his  horse,  not  for  the  sake 
of  being  obliging  to  his  fare,  but  that  he  himself,  after 
putting  up  his  cab  or  by  taking  his  stand  with  it  at  a  street 
corner,  might  see  San  Gennaro's  precious  blood  pass.  If 
all  the  little  streets  were  crowded  with  people,  all  the 
sumptuous  balconies  of  the  patricians'  houses  and  the  small, 
mean  balconies  alongside  were  swarming,  and  in  the  wide 
street  by  the  cathedral  the  crowd  was  stupendous.  That 
great  road  that  goes  down  rather  too  steeply  from  the  hill  to 
the  sea  from  Foria  Road  to  Marina,  which  was  the  first 
surgical  cut  through  old  Naples  (an  energetic  cut,  but  not 
well  carried  out ;  rather  ferocious  and  ridiculous  as  regards 
architecture,  but  certainly  sanitary  —  the  Duomo  Road, 
which  is  the  Toledo  of  old  Naples),  had  then  all  the  majesty 
of  its  great  days,  when  the  popular  flood  alarms  even  those 
who  count  over  its  numbers  proudly.  People  stretched  up  to 
Gerolomini  and  Pendino,  above  and  below,  in  the  two  porticos 
to  the  right  and  left  of  the  cathedral ;  they  stood  on  the  broad 
flight  of  steps,  climbed  on  the  gas-lamps,  and  even  on  the 
scaffolding  that  has  been  up  so  many  years  for  repairs  to  the 
west  front ;  there  were  people  there  close  together,  crushed 
in,  choking  in  the  open  air,  hanging  on  to  iron  girders  or  a 
beam,  and  balancing  themselves  in  an  extraordinary  way  on 
an  insecure  board.  Sometimes  a  mother  in  the  crowd  held 
up  her  child  to  let  it  get  air,  and  it  waved  its  legs  and  arms 
rejoicingly  for  that  throw  into  the  gentle  May  air.  The 
cathedral  police  vainly  tried  to  make  way  for  the  procession, 
which  was  already  formed  in  the  church ;  but  when  they 
pushed  back  the  crowd,  it  surged  back  again  so  strongly  it 
went  up  against  the  facade  of  the  church. 

Suddenly  from  under  the  black  arch  of  the  great  wide-open 
door,  where  some  torches  were  burning  in  the  background, 
solemn  psalmody  was  heard,  and  the  head  of  the  procession 


MAY  AND  SAN  GENNARO'S  MIRACLE  161 

appeared  amidst  silence  and  stillness  in  the  crowd.  Very, 
very  slowly,  with  an  almost  imperceptible  motion,  the 
Naples  religious  orders  came  forward  in  advance.  White 
and  black  monks,  brown,  shoeless,  or  in  sandals,  with  cape 
or  shaven  head,  singing  holy  San  Gennaro's  lauds,  with 
wandering  eyes,  and  holding  bent  torches,  whose  slender 
flame  was  hardly  visible,  being  swallowed  up  by  the  sunlight. 
A  little  boy  followed  to  pick  up  the  great  wax  drops  that  fell 
from  the  torches.  Dominicans,  Benedictines,  Franciscans, 
Verginisti,  missionaries,  Jesuits,  monks,  and  priests  in 
double  file  were  flowing  along,  carried  by  the  crowd,  not 
looking  at  it,  gazing  at  a  far-off  point  on  the  horizon  or  on 
the  ground.  All  mouths  were  open  to  sing  the  Latin  psalms 
— severe,  stern  mouths,  like  the  psalms  that  came  from 
them,  which  rose  in  waves  over  the  crowd's  head ;  and 
involuntarily,  as  the  religious  orders  moved  along  imper- 
ceptibly down  towards  Foria,  the  devout  who  knew  the 
Divo  Gennaro's  Latin  prayers  joined  in  the  solemn  song, 
while  many  of  the  crowd,  excited  by  the  air  and  light  and 
others  singing,  intoned  a  wordless  psalmody,  seized  by  a 
mystical  fervour.  From  the  bottom  of  the  Duomo  Road 
the  crowd,  advancing  with  the  procession,  went  with  open 
mouths ;  thousands  of  voices  were  solemnly  singing,  the 
wide  sky  swallowing  up  the  sound.  But  those  that  went  on 
towards  Forcella  did  not  leave  the  Duomo  Road  open :  others 
took  their  place,  and  pushed  them  on  ;  then,  a  string  of 
parish  priests  and  the  canons  of  San  Giovanni  Maggiore 
having  passed,  there  was  a  lively  tumult  among  the  people, 
showing  evident  interest  and  pleasure.  It  was  caused  by 
the  slow  filing-out  of  saints  that  go  with  Saint  Gennaro, 
to  do  him  honour  in  his  chapel — there  are  forty-six  of 
them,  either  whole  statues  or  busts,  in  silver.  These  saints 
stand  on  litters,  carried  on  four  men's  shoulders.  These 
porters  disappear  among  the  crowd,  so  that  the  saint  seems 
to  go  along  miraculously  by  himself,  all  sparkling,  over  the 
people's  heads.  Very,  very  slowly,  as  I  said,  for  the  crowd 
was  so  dense,  so  congested,  the  statues  sometimes  stood 
motionless,  while  the  people  gazed  on  them  with  suffused 
eyes  lingeringly,  for  Naples'  devotion  loves  to  feed  at  length 
on  the  sight  of  their  special  protectors,  who  are  shut  up  in 
the  treasury  all  the  year,  and  only  come  out  that  day  to 
bless  the  poor  folk. 

As  every  saint  appeared  under  the  dark  vane  of  the  great 

ii 


1 62  THE  LAND  OF  COCKAYNE 

door  and  went  through  the  people  on  the  way  to  Santa 
Chiara  by  Forcella,  there  were  shouts  of  joy.  The  first 
was  Naples'  other  patron,  one  who  comes  next  to  San 
Gennaro  as  a  protector,  Sant'  Antonio.  He  carries  a  staff 
with  a  tinkling  bell  on  the  top,  and  at  his  side  is  the  head 
of  the  animal  he  loved.  The  bell  swayed  as  the  saint 
moved,  and  rang  out  cheerfully  above  the  crowd,  making 
them  gay,  so  that  they  cried  out :  '  Sant'  Antonio !  Sant' 
Antonio !' 

Excited,  almost  sobbing,  Carmela,  the  cigar-girl,  asked 
the  saint's  protection.  He,  too,  loved  an  ugly  beast,  as  she 
loved  that  ungrateful,  hard-hearted  Raffaele,  called  Far- 
fariello.  She  had  been  pushed  right  into  the  telegraph- 
office  in  Duomo  Road,  and  her  strained  face  following  his 
figure  showed  her  hard  life  and  privations  plainer  than  ever. 
She  gazed  on  the  saint's  shining  face,  he  who  had  resisted 
so  many  temptations,  imploring  him  to  take  that  love  out  of 
her  heart,  and  free  her  from  love's  temptations,  for  it  made 
her  gnawing  poverty  twice  as  hard. 

'  Sant'  Antonio,  Sant'  Antonio  !'  the  crowd  shouted  to  the 
saint  as  he  went  off. 

'  Sant'  Antonio,  deliver  me !'  Carmela  sobbed  out,  not 
knowing  she  had  cried  out,  and  that  her  neighbours  were 
listening. 

But  one  prays  aloud  in  Naples,  whether  in  the  church  or 
the  street.  Now  the  Archangel  Michael,  the  triumphant 
warrior,  appeared,  tall  and  agile,  in  a  splendid  victorious 
pose,  his  dazzling  corslet  close  to  his  young  figure,  a  helmet 
on  the  fair,  triumphant  head,  lance  in  hand  to  kill  the 
dragon  his  foot  presses  down ;  Michael,  mystic  and  war- 
like, saint  and  hero.  Seeing  him  appear  so  handsome  and 
breathing  out  triumph,  with  the  devil  wriggling  vainly 
under  his  feet,  the  devout  had  an  artistic  feeling  in  their 
enthusiasm :  San  Michele  was  called  on  by  thousands  of 
voices. 

Leaning  against  a  column  of  the  portico,  to  the  right  of 
the  cathedral,  was  the  Marquis  di  Formosa.  He  took  off 
his  hat  in  humble  greeting  of  the  brilliant  Archangel,  for 
whom  he  had  great  devotion  ;  that  combination  of  cherubim 
and  warrior  pleased  his  violent  disposition  and  love  of  fight- 
ing so  much.  As  the  splendid,  handsome  saint  came  forward, 
for  ever  victorious,  trampling  on  the  dragon,  the  old  Marquis 
prayed  passionately  and  fervently  that  he  might  be  enabled 


MAY  AND  SAN  GENNAR&S  MIRACLE  163 

to  overcome  the  dragon  of  poverty,  shame  and  death  that 
came  against  him  every  day ;  he  implored  great  Michael, 
overthrower  of  the  devil,  to  lend  him  his  holy  lance  to  kill 
the  monster  that  threatened  to  devour  him.  San  Michele 
went  down  the  road  to  the  sea  also ;  he  was  so  handsome, 
flaming  with  glory  in  the  noonday  light,  that  the  three 
syllables  of  his  name  were  repeated  over  and  over  again,  up 
and  down,  as  fire  runs  along  a  powder-train :  '  Michele ! 
Michele!  Michele!' 

But  San  Rocco  made  a  diversion,  the  saviour  of  the 
plague-stricken,  the  people's  protector  in  all  epidemics ;  he 
is  dressed  as  a  pilgrim,  with  mantle,  hood,  and  staff;  he 
raises  the  tunic  to  show  the  bare  knee,  with  a  sore  carved 
on  it,  a  sign  of  the  plague.  A  faithful  little  dog  follows 
him — so  faithful  that  people  say  :  '  San  Rocco  and  his  dog,' 
referring  to  inseparables.  This  strong  friendship,  the  saint's 
rather  queer  figure,  in  a  short  cloak,  and  the  dog  following 
— this  well-known  story,  excites  affectionate  hilarity  among 
the  crowd.  They  look  on  San  Rocco  as  a  dear,  indulgent 
friend  they  can  joke  with,  as  he  never  gets  in  a  rage. 

'  Is  your  knee  cold,  Santo  Rocco  ?' 

«  Hi,  hi,  baldhead !' 

'  Lend  me  your  great-coat,  Santo  Rocco  !' 

But  the  really  devout  were  scandalized,  and  insisted  on 
silence.  The  lovely  saint  who  was  a  sinner  now  appeared, 
the  penitent  Maddalena,  quivering  over  her  bearers'  heads, 
her  fine  hair  falling  down  her  back,  her  eyes  bedewed  with 
petrified  tears ;  behind  her,  curiously  enough,  came  another 
saintly  sinner,  Maria  Egiziaca,  consumed  and  wasted  by  a 
not  less  ardent  remorse  than  the  Magdalene's.  A  sort  of 
dull  shiver  went  through  all  those  who  saw  the  statues  pass 
in  their  midst — it  was  a  quiet  excitement  that  had  no  out- 
burst. On  the  widest  low  step  of  the  flight,  under  the 
fa9ade  scaffolding,  stood  Filomena,  Carmela's  unhappy 
sister,  in  blue  skirt,  gray  silk  bodice,  a  pink  ribbon  round  her 
neck,  hair  combed  to  the  top  of  the  head,  cheeks  covered 
with  rouge.  She  did  not  hear  the  insolent  hints  of  those 
around  her.  Pulling  up  her  embroidered  shawl,  she  prayed 
earnestly  to  the  two  saints — sinners  like  herself,  but  still 
saints — in  blessed  San  Gennaro's  name,  to  do  her  the  grace 
of  freeing  her  from  her  disgraceful  life,  and  she  would  offer 
up  a  solid  silver  heart. 

Then  there  was  a  great  flutter  among  the  women  in  the 

II — 2 


1 64  THE  LAND  OF  COCKAYNE 

balconies  and  street.  After  San  Giuseppe  and  Sant'  Andrea 
Avellino,  both  patrons  of  a  good  death,  and  therefore  very 
dear  to  imaginative  Neapolitans,  who  have  the  greatest  fear 
of  death ;  after  San  Alfonso  di  Liguori,  who  is  called  '  wry- 
neck,' with  loving  familiarity,  because  his  head  leans  to  one 
shoulder  ;  after  San  Vincenzio  Ferrari,  who  bears  the  flame 
of  the  Holy  Ghost  on  his  head,  and  an  open  book  of  the  law 
in  his  hands — when  all  these  popular  saints  passed  amid 
shouts,  smiles,  and  affectionate  greetings,  a  fine  shining  saint, 
as  if  newly  out  of  the  engraver's  hands,  with  a  round,  good- 
natured  face  and  open  lowered  hands  to  rain  down  blessings, 
came  out  of  the  cathedral.  It  was  San  Pasquale  Baylon, 
the  girls'  patron  saint — he  they  make  a  novcna  to  to  get  a 
husband ;  he  sends  husbands,  being  an  accommodating, 
joyous  saint :  all  the  lassies  know  the  figure,  they  recognise 
him  at  once.  From  a  balcony  with  a  dressmaker's  sign- 
board, '  Madama  Juliana,'  Antonietta  the  blonde,  with  her 
friend  Nannina,  let  fall  a  rose,  that  whirled  slowly  down  on 
to  San  Pasquale's  arm.  All  felt  the  devotion,  the  longing,  in 
that  act ;  quantities  of  roses  were  thrown  from  the  balconies 
and  street  at  San  Pasquale.  '  Like  you,  just  the  same,  oh, 
blessed  San  Pasquale,'  prayed  the  girls,  referring  to  the 
husband  they  wanted. 

Now  the  procession  hurried  a  little ;  the  saints  passed 
quicker,  for  the  impatience  of  the  crowd  in  front  of  the 
cathedral  and  Duomo  Road  got  tremendous.  Great  shudders 
went  through  the  people  ;  all  this  splendour  of  silver  aure- 
oles and  faces,  that  singular  walking  over  people's  heads, 
and  going  off  towards  Forcella,  the  continuous  new  silvery 
apparitions  in  the  great  black  vane  of  the  cathedral  door, 
gave  a  nervous  feeling  even  to  quiet  onlookers. 

Cesare  Fragala  and  De  Feo  the  medium  were  standing 
in  a  little  coffee-house  doorway  to  see  the  procession,  but 
the  mild  little  confectioner,  who  fled  from  his  shop  every 
day  he  could,  to  follow  the  mysterious  lanky  medium,  had 
lost  the  old  youthful  joyousness  and  certainty  about  life — his 
face  had  a  sickly,  care-lined  look  now.  The  medium, 
though  he  pumped  out  money  every  week  from  the  whole 
cabalistic  group,  and  from  others  too,  still  wore  his  dirty 
torn  clothes,  unstarched,  frayed  linen,  and  cravat  curled  up 
like  a  wick ;  his  complexion  was  still  yellow  with  dull-red, 
scirrhus-like  streaks,  as  if  he  had  barely  recovered  from  a 
severe  fever.  The  medium  always  brought  Cesare  Fragala 


MAY  AND  SAN  GENNAR&S  MIRACLE  165 

along  with  him  now ;  he  insisted  on  keeping  up  with  De 
Feo's  fantastic  ideas,  though  his  simple  commercial  mind 
did  not  understand  them ;  but  he  was  furious,  enraged 
at  himself  for  his  want  of  comprehension.  He  accused 
his  own  disposition,  as  being  too  lively,  healthy,  and 
stupid  to  be  able  to  take  in  the  spirituality  and  refine- 
ments of  him  who  had  the  luck  to  be  visited  by  the 
spirits. 

Now,  Don  Pasqualino  had  told  all  his  devotees  plainly 
enough  that  a  great  fortune  would  come  to  them  that  May 
Saturday,  sacred  to  San  Gennaro's  precious  blood.  The 
gamblers  listened  greedily ;  for  many  weeks,  for  ever  so 
long,  they  had  not  won  a  halfpenny.  Except  Ninetto  Costa, 
the  stockbroker,  who  made  a  big  profit  off  some  numbers  he 
got  from  a  wine  merchant's  lad  who  brought  him  an  account 
to  settle,  and  Marzano,  who  got  an  ambo  of  fifty  francs  from 
his  friend  the  cobbler's  advice,  no  one  else  had  got  anything, 
in  spite  of  the  inspired  friar,  or  the  medium,  good  spirits  or 
bad,  in  spite  of  all  their  prayers  and  magic. 

Now,  Don  Pasqualino,  who  had  sucked  up  hundreds  of 
francs  that  winter  and  spring,  said  that  San  Gennaro  would 
certainly  grant  a  favour  that  first  Saturday  in  May,  and  all 
the  Cabalists  believed  him,  and  were  scattered  here  and 
there  among  the  crowd  in  Duomo  Road,  having  agreed  to 
meet  at  Vespers  in  Santa  Chiara.  But  Cesare  Fragala 
clung  the  harder  to  the  medium,  the  deeper  he  plunged  in 
the  gambling  gulf ;  he  had  staked  a  lot  that  Saturday,  and 
was  determined  to  keep  an  eye  on  him.  Whenever  a  saint 
appeared,  the  medium  turned  up  his  eyes,  and  prayed  in  a 
whisper  in  the  midst  of  the  crowd ;  Fragala,  alongside  of 
him,  crossed  himself  distractedly.  He  stretched  his  ears  to 
hear  all  the  medium  said  when  each  saint  came  out.  Now 
Santa  Candida  Brancaccio  passed,  one  of  the  first  Naples 
Christian  martyrs,  a  young  woman  looking  up  to  heaven, 
and  in  her  right  hand  she  held  a  long  arrow,  that  of  divine 
love.  A  voice  called  out  from  the  crowd,  supposing  the 
arrow  to  be  a  pen  : 

'  Write  a  letter  for  me  to  the  eternal  Father,  Santa 
Candida !' 

'  The  saint  is  writing  for  you,'  the  medium  at  once  chimed 
in,  turning  to  Fragala. 

'  So  we  hope — that  is  my  hope,'  he  humbly  replied. 

A  great  noise  greeted  San   Biagio,  another   Bishop  of 


1 66  THE  LAND  OF  COCK  A  YNE 

Naples  ;  he  is  shown  blessing  the  town.  For  two  or  three 
years  diphtheria  and  quinsy  had  kept  the  hearts  of  Naples' 
mothers  in  terror,  especially  among  the  lower  classes.  San 
Biagio  is  just  the  saint  for  throat  complaints.  When  the 
silver  saint  came  out,  amidst  clamour,  fathers  and  mothers 
held  out  their  children  to  the  holy  Bishop  to  get  his  blessing, 
that  they  might  escape  the  dreadful  scourge  that  killed  so 
many  innocents. 

'San  Biase!  San  Biase!'  screamed  out  the  excited, 
sobbing  mothers,  holding  up  their  children. 

Annarella  too,  Carmela's  and  unhappy  Filomena's  sister, 
held  up  her  two  remaining  sons,  for  the  smallest  was  dead, 
after  having  languished  a  long  time.  Ah !  he  would 
never  again  be  waiting  for  her  on  the  cellar  doorstep, 
patiently  munching  a  bit  of  bread  till  she  came  back  from 
work.  Poor  little  Peppinello — he  was  dead !  He  died  of 
wretchedness  in  a  damp,  smelly  cellar,  from  bad,  coarse 
food,  with  only  his  little  garments  to  cover  him  when  asleep, 
always  clinging  to  his  mother  for  warmth.  Mother's  little 
flower  was  dead,  starved  by  the  bonafficciata,  by  that  terrible 
lottery  that  ruined  Gaetano,  that  drove  him  to  steal  his 
children's  bread.  Annarella  would  never  be  consoled  for 
that  death.  The  two  left  to  her  were  well-behaved  and 
strong,  but  they  were  not  her  blonde,  delicate  flower.  They 
had  dragged  her  there  to  see  San  Gennaro,  and  when  the 
wretched  woman  saw  so  many  little  ones  held  up  she  lifted 
hers  too,  weeping  and  sobbing,  thinking  her  dear  flower 
had  not  been  saved  either  by  San  Biase,  San  Gennaro,  or 
all  the  saints  in  Paradise.  But  as  the  day  went  on,  the 
people's  emotion  increased ;  everyone  was  given  up  to 
strong  emotions  that  grew  stronger  every  moment  from  the 
influence  of  those  around  them.  In  the  excited  eyes  of 
girls,  mothers,  the  poor,  the  unhappy,  the  guilty,  all  who 
needed  help,  whether  moral  or  material,  that  show  of  saints 
got  to  be  like  a  dream ;  they  saw  a  shining  vision  pass, 
with  silvery,  dazzling  reflections  ;  the  names  got  lost,  but 
the  whole  procession  of  the  blessed  images  was  impressed 
on  them. 

The  crowd,  now  confused  and  deafened,  shaken  by  reli- 
gious fervour,  did  not  recognise  a  group  of  saints  of  Naples' 
earliest  ages — Sant'  Aspreno,  San  Severe,  Sant'  Eusebio, 
Sant*  Agrippino,  and  Sant'  Attanasio,  most  antique  saints, 
rather  obscure  and  forgotten.  A  roar  like  thunder  greeted 


MAY  AND  SAN  GENNARO'S  MIRACLE  167 

the  five  Franciscans  who  keep  watch  round  San  Gennaro 
in  the  succorpo  :  San  Francesco  d'Assisi,  Di  Paolo,  Di 
Ceronimo,  Caracciolo,  and  Borgia.  Another  shout  when 
Sant'  Anna,  the  Virgin's  mother,  came  out,  to  whom,  say 
the  people,  no  grace  is  ever  refused.  No  one  troubled 
themselves  much  about  San  Domenico,  who  invented  the 
Rosary,  as  no  one  in  the  confusion  of  that  noontide  hour 
recognised  the  proud  Spanish  monk,  except  the  gloomy 
Finance  Secretary,  Don  Domenico  Mayer.  Being  pushed 
by  the  crowd  against  a  wall,  he  kept  his  tall  hat  well  over 
his  eyes,  and  his  arms  were  crossed  in  a  proud,  gloomy 
way,  his  lips  set  in  a  sad,  sceptical  smile.  The  saints  went 
on  and  on,  out  of  the  cathedral's  great  dark  portal,  towards 
Forcella,  rather  quicker  now ;  the  crowd  swayed  from  right 
to  left,  as  if  to  free  itself  from  the  constraint  of  that  close 
attention. 

The  saints'  procession  was  just  about  finishing,  having 
lasted  nearly  an  hour,  from  the  slowness  of  the  going,  and 
it  ended  with  San  Gaetano  Thiene,  the  angelic  San  Filippo 
Neri,  with  the  holy  doctors  Tommaso  and  Agostino,  Santa 
Irene,  Sant'  Maria  Maddalena  di  Pazzi,  the  great  Santa 
Teresa  in  ecstasy,  all  ardour  and  passion,  that  magnificent 
saint  of  Avila,  who  died  of  divine  love.  When  the  long  file 
of  saints  finished,  and  the  first  of  the  cathedral  canons  came 
out,  there  was  a  great  movement  among  the  waiting  people. 
All  stretched  their  heads  to  see  better,  not  to  lose  a  tittle  of 
the  religious  show ;  but  the  noise  was  unrestrained  in  spite 
of  this  close  attention.  At  last  the  canons  ended  also,  and 
finally,  under  the  great  embroidered,  gold-fringed  canopy, 
appeared  the  chief  pastor  of  the  Neapolitan  Church,  pallid, 
his  face  radiant  with  a  deeply  compassionate  expression, 
his  lips  moving  in  prayer.  Eight  gentlemen  held  up  the 
poles  of  the  canopy,  eight  choir-boys  swung  censers  of 
smoking  incense  around  him.  The  Archbishop,  a  Cardinal 
Prince  of  the  Church,  walked  slowly,  alone,  under  the 
canopy,  his  eyes  fixed  on  his  own  clasped  hands  ;  and  the 
whole  crowd  of  women  stretching  out  their  arms,  men 
praying,  children  lisping  San  Gennaro's  name,  gazed  not 
at  the  canopy,  gold  vestments,  or  jewelled  mitre,  but 
affectionately,  enthusiastically  at  the  Archbishop's  waxen, 
clasped  hands,  weeping,  crying,  asking  favours  and  pity, 
gazing  fixedly  at  what  he  pressed  in  his  hands,  now  trem- 
bling with  sacred  respect.  To  it  were  directed  all  glances, 


1 68  THE  LAND  OF  COCK  A  YNE 

all  sighs,  all  prayers.     The  Cardinal  Archbishop  of  Naples 
held  the  phial  of  the  precious  blood. 

*  *  *  *  * 

In  Santa  Chiara's  fine  church,  all  white  with  stucco  and 
loaded  with  gilding  like  a  very  spacious  royal  hall,  the 
crowd  was  waiting  for  San  Gennaro's  miracle.  It  was  not 
yet  night,  but  thousands  of  wax  tapers,  on  the  high  altar 
and  in  the  side  chapels,  especially  on  those  dedicated  to  the 
Virgin  and  Eternal  Father,  lighted  up  the  vast,  lovely,  grace- 
ful church.  On  the  high  altar,  San  Gennaro's  head,  in  a 
gemmed  mitre,  the  face  ornamented  with  gold,  was  placed 
on  a  white  napkin  in  a  gold  dish.  The  two  phials  of  the 
precious  blood  stood  more  in  the  middle,  for  the  adoration  of 
the  faithful.  All  around  the  high  altar  and  behind  the  antique 
carved  wood  balustrade  that  cuts  off  a  large  space  with  the 
altar  from  the  rest  of  the  church,  stood  the  forty-six  silver 
statues  that  form  a  guard  of  honour  to  San  Gennaro's 
relics.  The  Cardinal  Archbishop  and  the  canons  were  doing 
service  at  the  high  altar  to  Naples'  holy  patron,  that  he 
might  perform  the  miracle;  behind  the  balustrade,  to  the 
side  of  the  high  altar,  stood  a  solitary,  favoured,  happy 
group  of  old  men  and  women,  all  in  black,  with  white 
neckerchiefs  and  cravats,  the  men  uncovered,  the  women 
with  a  black  veil  over  their  hair,  a  group  watched,  com- 
mented on,  and  envied  by  all  the  other  devotees.  They  were 
San  Gennaro's  relations  ;  they  alone  had  the  right  to  go  up 
to  the  high  altar  to  see  the  miracle  at  half  a  yard's  distance. 

Then  came  an  immense  crowd — in  the  great  single  nave 
of  Santa  Chiara,  in  the  side  chapels,  and  even  outside  the 
two  great  doors,  on  the  steps  and  cloisters,  where  the  latest 
arrivals  stood  on  tiptoe,  dazzled  by  the  thousands  of  tapers, 
trying  to  see  something,  struggling  vainly  to  push  a  step  for- 
ward, for  there  was  no  more  room  for  anyone.  All  were 
agitated  and  disquieted,  from  the  Cardinal  Archbishop 
kneeling  in  prayer  before  the  altar  to  the  humblest  little 
woman  of  the  lower  class ;  all  were  waiting  till  the  heavenly 
Gennaro  carried  out  the  miracle.  Most  fervently,  with  head 
bent  over  the  seat  in  front,  with  the  trusting  piety  of  a  young 
heart,  Bianca  Maria  Cavalcanti  was  praying,  as  the  miracu- 
lous moment  drew  near.  She  prayed  to  San  Gennaro,  in 
the  name  of  his  precious  blood,  to  give  peace  to  her  father's 
heart,  to  give  Amati  faith ;  and  sincerely,  in  the  great,  wise, 
deep  goodness  of  her  heart,  she  asked  nothing  for  herself. 


MAY  AND  SAN  GENNAR&S  MIRACLE  169 

It  was  enough  for  her  that  her  father's  sick,  troubled,  tor- 
tured heart  should  have  peace ;  that  Antonio  Amati's  strong, 
hard  heart,  besides  its  human  love,  should  share  the  highest 
tenderness  of  the  Divine.  Here  in  a  short  time  one  of  the 
greatest  miracles  of  religion  would  be  accomplished.  Could 
not  San  Gennaro  work  a  miracle  in  their  hearts,  if  she  wor- 
shipped with  her  whole  strength  ?  She  prayed  on,  her 
cheeks  flushed  with  an  unwonted  fire,  a  faint  blush  over 
them,  with  a  restrained  force  of  mystic  enthusiasm,  a  new 
passion  that  had  come  into  her  frozen  life  and  brightened  it. 

At  the  high  altar,  his  face  turned  to  heaven,  breathing 
intense  faith,  his  voice  trembling  with  overpowering  emotion, 
the  Cardinal  Archbishop  was  saying  the  Latin  prayers  in 
honour  of  Naples'  high  protector.  The  whole  crowd  re- 
sponded with  a  long  thundering  'Amen!'  'Amen!'  came 
from  Santa  Chiara's  patrician  nuns,  hidden  behind  the  choir 
grating. 

After  the  Oremus,  a  moment's  silence  followed ;  the  fore- 
running breath  of  great  things  seemed  to  pass  over  the 
praying  people.  San  Gennaro's  relations  at  the  high  altar 
intoned  the  Credo  in  Italian  impetuously,  and  the  whole 
church  took  it  up ;  that  ended,  there  were  two  minutes  of 
uneasy  waiting,  to  see  if  the  miracle  was  beginning.  But  a 
second,  a  third  Credo  was  soon  taken  up  with  vigour,  as  if 
the  whole  people  declared  its  belief,  swore  it  on  their  con- 
science, gave  themselves  over  to  faith  in  spirit  and  truth, 
impetuously.  The  Cardinal  Archbishop,  kneeling,  his  hands 
covering  his  face,  prayed  on  in  silence.  The  Credo  went  on 
behind  him,  intoned  at  short  intervals  by  San  Gennaro's 
relations,  and  carried  on  by  the  whole  people.  A  solemn 
note  stood  out  here  and  there  amid  the  general  rumble  from 
a  desolate  heart,  a  sharp  note  struck  off  tortured  nerves. 
.  .  .  '  I  believe !'  shouted  the  people,  with  a  break  in  the 
voice  which  seemed  to  denote  a  thousand  prayers,  vows,  and 
hopes. 

Ah !  Luisella  Fragala,  too,  seated  in  a  corner  beside  the 
melancholy  Signora  Parascandolo,  was  a  profound  believer. 
Tears,  caused  by  her  excited  religious  feelings,  ran  down  her 
cheeks  silently.  She  had  a  dark  presentiment  of  coming  mis- 
fortune ;  she  felt  it,  without  seeing  or  making  out  what  it  was, 
but  sure  that  it  was  on  its  way  inexorably.  She  asked  San 
Gennaro  for  strength,  such  as  he  had  in  his  frightful  martyr- 
dom, to  bear  the  mysterious  catastrophe  that  was  coming  on 


170  THE  LAND  OF  COCKAYNE 

her.  Signora  Parascandolo  was  saying  the  Creed  too  with 
the  people  in  a  feeble  voice ;  but  in  the  almost  frightened 
pauses,  while  waiting  for  the  imminent  miracle,  she,  be- 
reaved of  her  children,  begged  San  Gennaro  to  grant  her  a 
grace,  to  take  her  from  this  land  of  exile,  whence  all  her 
children  were  gone,  leaving  her  alone,  groping  in  the  cold 
and  darkness.  Rosy  Agnesina's  happy  mother,  just  like 
the  unhappy  mother  who  was  wounded  in  the  past,  as  she 
was  to  be  in  the  future,  asked  for  strength  to  conquer  or 
to  die. 

But  at  the  fifteenth  Credo  uneasiness  began  among  the 
multitude ;  the  words  of  faith  sounded  shrilly,  like  a  challenge 
flung  to  unbelievers,  but  they  had  a  quiver  of  secret  dread ; 
the  pauses  between  each  Credo  got  longer  as  the  depression 
of  waiting  wore  out  their  nerves,  then  it  was  taken  up  again 
enthusiastically,  as  if  the  renewed  rush  of  feeling  was  terrible, 
as  is  the  way  with  crowds. 

The  wildest  in  mystic  enthusiasm  were  the  old  people 
at  the  high  altar ;  from  behind  them  a  flame  ran  from  one 
heart  to  another,  carrying  the  devouring  fire  into  soft  in- 
dolent temperaments,  even  to  the  hearts  of  sceptics,  who 
trembled  as  if  a  rude  revolution  had  struck  them  and  was 
clearing  their  eyes.  At  the  twenty-first  Credo  there  was 
anguish  in  the  expectation.  All  eyes  went  from  the  saint's 
head  on  the  gold  dish  to  the  clear  crystal  phial  with  its  clot 
of  dark  blood.  The  head,  in  its  gemmed  mitre  and  yellow 
gold  mask,  sparkled  with  metallic,  rather  livid  reflections  ; 
the  blood  was  still  congealed,  a  stone  that  prayers  could  not 
break.  At  the  twenty-second  Credo,  intoned  with  a  burst 
of  rage,  some  shouts  were  heard,  calling  out  desperately : 

'  San  Gennaro  !  San  Gennaro  !  San  Gennaro !' 

The  feverish  prayers  recited  by  the  multitude  in  Santa 
Chiara,  which  humbly,  forcibly,  tremblingly  implored  a 
miracle  from  Naples'  holy  patron,  were  fervently  said  by 
two  women  kneeling  in  the  crowd,  their  elbows  on  straw 
seats,  and  faces  hidden,  absorbed  soul  and  body  in  the  grace 
they  implored.  Donna  Caterina,  the  clandestine  lottery 
keeper,  and  Donna  Concetta,  the  money-lender,  had  taken 
a  vow  together  to  San  Gennaro  for  a  bishop's  heavy  gold 
ring  with  a  large  topaz,  if  he  would  do  them  the  grace  to 
end  their  sufferings :  either  change  their  lovers,  Ciccillo 
and  Alfonso  Jannacone's,  hearts,  make  them  tolerant  of  the 
sisters'  enterprises,  or  change  their  own  hearts,  and  free 


MAY  AND  SAN  GENNAR&S  MIRACLE  171 

them  from  love  of  money.  A  ring,  a  magnificent  ring,  to 
the  miracle-working  saint  if  he  did  that  miracle  for  them ; 
so  they  both  prayed  in  a  whisper,  saying  their  offer  over 
again,  monotonously  raising  their  imploring,  tearful  eyes  to 
the  high  altar,  where  the  great  mystery  was  imminent.  But 
the  people  were  in  a  panic  already  from  that  delay ;  they 
felt  a  great  terror  that  just  that  year,  after  two  centuries 
and  a  half,  the  saint,  angry,  perhaps,  with  the  sins  of  the 
people,  should  refuse  to  do  the  miracle  that  is  the  proof  of 
his  benevolence.  The  Creed,  taken  up  again  after  a  longer, 
deeper,  and  therefore  more  emotional  pause  of  silence,  had 
an  alarmed,  almost  angry,  tone,  and  burst  out  with  a 
despairing  rush  ;  above  all,  the  old  women's  voices  at  the 
high  altar  got  angry  and  frightened,  trembling  with  sorrow 
and  terror.  In  a  silent  pause,  suddenly  one  of  them  said,  in 
a  voice  shaken  by  devout  familiarity,  meek  jocularity,  and 
uncontrollable  impatience : 

'  Old  cross-patch,  you  want  to  keep  us  waiting,  eh  ?' 
'  San  Gennaro !  San  Gennaro !  San  Gennaro !'  yelled  the 
populace,  curiously  excited. 

Down  there,  at  the  bottom  of  the  church,  near  the  wall, 
where  that  sweet,  faded  Madonna,  said  to  be  Giotti's,  calms 
the  eye  with  its  subdued  colouring,  Don  Pasqualino  stood 
in  an  attitude  that  was  all  prayer ;  he  was  standing,  but  his 
head  and  shoulders  were  bent  forward  obsequiously,  and 
now  and  then,  when  he  raised  his  head  from  tiredness  or 
inspiration  to  look  at  the  gilded,  painted  sky  in  the  church, 
the  whites  of  his  eyes  looked  enormous,  out  of  proportion, 
and  all  colour  had  left  his  cheeks  ;  his  livid  pallor  went  on 
increasing.  By  a  magnetic  attraction,  all  those  who  believed 
in  him  and  his  visions  had  gathered  round  him,  all  disturbed- 
looking,  full  of  repressed  despair,  that  showed  itself  in  some 
faces  as  if  they  were  deep  down  in  sorrow's  abyss,  for  that 
Saturday,  too,  had  brought  them  a  great  disappointment, 
two  hours  before,  when  the  lottery  figures  came  out ;  all 
were  bent  by  a  gnawing  remorse,  for  they  felt  guilty  towards 
others  and  themselves.  The  Marquis  di  Formosa  was 
bowed,  his  fine  figure  looked  almost  decrepit,  for  he  felt  the 
shame  of  his  disreputable  life ;  he  was  losing  everything, 
even  his  daughter,  in  a  slow  agony  of  bad  health  and 
wretchedness.  Cesare  Fragala's  commercial  standing  was 
always  getting  more  compromised ;  he  felt  his  trading 
correspondents'  coldness,  his  wife's  evident  low  spirits  and 


172  THE  LAND  OF  COCKAYNE 

secret  dread,  hoping  always,  but  in  vain,  to  set  it  all  right 
with  a  big  haul.  Ninetto  Costa  was  pallid,  but  smiling,  his 
eyes  hollow  from  sitting  up  at  night  and  anxiety  ;  he  often 
thought  of  the  catastrophe,  choosing  in  his  mind  between 
dishonourable  flight  and  the  revolver  shot  that  does  not 
clear  scores,  but  softens  people.  Baron  Lamarra  was  there, 
big,  fat  and  flabby,  cursing  his  ambitious  beggar-on-horseback 
dreams,  shuddering  at  the  idea  of  that  promissory  note 
signed  by  himself  and  his  wife.  Marzano's  gentle  smile 
had  got  rather  idiotic,  for  he  increased  his  frugality  every 
week  so  as  to  be  able  to  gamble ;  he  had  given  up  snuff, 
smoking  and  wine,  had  pawned  his  pension  papers,  and  was 
now  getting  compromised  in  queer  affairs.  Colaneri  and 
Trifari  were  getting  no  more  pupils  ;  the  first  especially  felt 
himself  suspected,  discredited,  fearing  every  morning,  as  he 
entered  the  school,  to  be  turned  out  by  order  of  a  superior, 
or  knocked  down  by  the  students.  All,  all,  were  attacked 
by  that  Saturday-evening  desolation,  the  black,  terrible 
hour  when  conscience  alone  speaks,  loudly,  sternly,  inflexibly. 
Still,  they  were  in  church,  and  the  most  indifferent  and 
unbelieving  murmured  some  words  of  prayer  ;  they  still  sur- 
rounded the  medium,  eagerly  looking  at  him  as  he  prayed. 
One  could  see  from  that  fascination  that  he  still  had  power 
over  them,  and  judge  from  their  eager  glances  that  once  the 
momentary  discouragement  was  past  the  passion  would 
grow  again.  Ah  !  but  that  hour  in  the  midst  of  the  crowd, 
breathing  out  all  its  unhappiness  in  prayer,  was  as  frightful 
for  them,  who  were  guilty,  as  the  fatal  night  of  Gethsemane 
was  for  the  great  sinless  One. 

Despairingly,  all  fixed  their  eyes  on  the  high  altar,  where 
the  burning  candles  cast  reflections  on  the  saint's  face. 

'San  Gennaro  !  San  GennaroF  the  people  shouted  out 
as  every  Credo  ended. 

A  wind  of  terror  that  the  miracle  would  not  come  blew 
over  them  and  burst  out  in  their  voices.  San  Gennaro's 
relatives  were  torn  with  sorrow  and  rage ;  they  had  got  to 
the  thirty-fifth  Credo,  and  the  time  was  going  by  with 
threatening  slowness;  they,  feeling  at  once  offence  at  their 
holy  ancestor's  delay  and  despair  at  his  anger,  called  out  to 
him  things  like  this : 

'  San  Gennaro,  face  of  gold,  don't  keep  us  waiting  any 
longer !' 

'  You  are  in  a  rage,  eh  ?     What  have  we  done  to  you  ?' 


MA  Y  AND  SAN  GENNAR&S  MIRACLE  173 

'  Old  cross-patch,  do  the  miracle  for  your  people  !' 

The  feeling  of  rage,  tenderness,  devotion,  and  agitation 
that  breathed  in  these  reproaches  and  pious  invocations 
cannot  be  expressed.  The  legend  says  San  Gennaro  likes 
to  be  pressed,  and  does  not  get  offended  at  the  remarks  his 
relatives  and  the  populace  make  to  him,  and  the  people's 
emotion  was  such  that  at  the  thirty-eighth  Credo  each 
sentence  of  the  prayer  was  said  desperately,  as  if  every 
word  was  dragged  out  by  overpowering  agony ;  cries  burst 
out  far  back : 

'  Green  face!' 

'  Ugly  yellow  face  !' 

'  Not  much  of  a  saint !' 

'  Do  this  miracle — do  it !' 

The  thirty-eighth  Credo  was  clamorous ;  everyone  said  it 
from  one  end  of  the  church  to  the  other :  the  Cardinal,  the 
priests,  men,  women,  and  children,  everyone  was  seized  by 
a  mystical  rage.  All  of  a  sudden,  in  the  great  silent  pause 
that  followed  the  prayer,  the  Archbishop  turned  to  the 
people ;  his  face,  irradiated  by  an  almost  divine  light, 
seemed  transfigured ;  his  uplifted  hands  displayed  the  phial. 
The  precious  blood  in  its  thin  crystal  covering  was  bubbling 
up.  What  a  shout !  The  old  church's  foundations  seemed 
shaken  by  it ;  the  echoes  were  so  loud  and  long  that  passers- 
by  in  neighbouring  streets  were  alarmed  ;  the  sonorous  bells 
in  the  tower  seemed  to  quiver  of  themselves  ;  the  weeping 
— the  sob  of  a  whole  kneeling  people,  cast  down  on  the 
ground,  kissing  the  cold  marble,  holding  out  their  arms, 
quivering  with  the  vision  of  the  blood — was  endless. 

At  the  high  altar  the  old  relatives  lay  as  if  they  were 
dead ;  one  single  powerful  force  bent  the  whole  crowd ; 
there  was  one  lament,  sob,  prayer  ;  in  that  long  moment 
everyone  mentioned  with  warm  tears  and  shaking  voice  his 
own  sorrow  and  need.  At  the  high  altar  the  Archbishop 
and  clergy  now  stood  up,  and  sang  the  anthem  in  full  tones 
above  the  organ  notes. 


CHAPTER  XI 

AN    IDYLL   AND    MADNESS 

DR.  ANTONIO  AMATI  was  deeply  in  love  with  Bianca  Maria 
Cavalcanti.  That  rugged  heart  that  had  got  like  iron  in  its 
conflict  with  science,  men  and  things,  that  had  had  to  drink 
up  all  its  tears  again,  and  look  on  calmly  at  all  kinds  of 
wretchedness — that  iron  heart  which  had  a  great  deal  of 
coldness  in  its  simplicity,  which,  as  regards  sentiment,  was 
virginal,  childishly  pure,  had  opened  out  slowly,  almost 
timidly,  to  love.  At  first.  .  .  .  How  had  it  been  at  first  ? 
The  habit  of  seeing  the  white,  melancholy  figure  at  the 
balcony  windows  every  day,  noticing  that  gentle,  slender 
apparition  among  the  shadows  of  the  court  in  these  melan- 
choly surroundings.  At  first  it  had  been  nothing  but  habit, 
which  is  often  the  beginning  of  love ;  it  creates,  strengthens, 
and  makes  it  invincible.  Then  came  pity,  a  lively  source 
of  tenderness — a  source  that  often  hides  underground,  dis- 
appears, seems  lost ;  but,  later  on,  further  on,  it  burst  forth 
gaily,  flowing  inexhaustibly. 

While  Bianca  Maria's  fainting-fit  was  going  on,  from  the 
Sacramentiste  parlour  to  her  bare  room  in  the  Rossi  Palace, 
her  transparent  face,  shut  eyelids  with  their  violet  shadows, 
lips  as  pale  as  the  tender  pink  of  a  rose,  made  him  fear  more 
than  once  she  was  dead.  He  often  saw  that  youthful  figure 
again  in  his  mind  in  a  deathlike  torpor ;  he  saw  her  as  if 
dead.  Pity  twined  itself  round  his  heart  on  recalling  the 
sorrowful  expression  that  often  crossed  the  girl's  face,  as  if 
a  terrible  secret,  a  physical  and  moral  torture,  went  through 
her  soul  and  nerves  ;  pity  led  him  to  wish  to  save  her  from 
her  suffering.  The  day  the  idea  flashed  into  the  great 
doctor's  mind  to  snatch  the  pure  creature  from  death,  sick- 
ness, and  unhappiness,  whenever  his  life-saving  instinct 
warned  him  the  struggle  was  beginning,  when  he  felt  the 


AN  IDYLL  AND  MADNESS  175 

appeal  to  his  intuitive  perception  of  life,  to  his  energy  and 
courage,  when  his  whole  strength  was  summoned  up  to  save 
Bianca  Maria,  he  knew  the  word  was  said  that  not  only  the 
scientist,  the  man,  wished  the  girl  health  and  happiness,  but 
that  the  lover  was  shaking  at  the  idea  of  losing  her.  The 
slight  touch  of  the  thin  hand,  now  frozen  as  if  it  had  no  life, 
then  burning  with  fever,  sent  flames  of  passion  to  his  brain. 
The  word  was  spoken  with  a  lad's  simple  tenderness  and  a 
man's  strong  resolution,  swaying  from  the  purest  idyll  to 
violent  dramatic  possibilities.  He  was  in  love.  Why  not  ? 
For  one  day,  one  single  moment,  he  had  tried  to  conquer 
himself,  from  the  natural  egotism  of  a  man  who  has  fought 
and  triumphed  alone  ;  but  accustomed  to  accept  all  his  re- 
sponsibilities in  life  to  the  utmost,  he  bowed  to  love.  Why 
not  ?  He  never  had  loved,  for  passing  attractions  towards 
women,  short  caprices,  leave  no  trace  in  the  heart.  Being 
children  of  the  imagination,  born  of  a  hard,  impetuous  life, 
they  come  back  sometimes  like  a  dream,  but  as  indefinite 
and  undecided  as  dreams  ;  the  heart  is  not  concerned. 

Dr.  Amati,  a  lonely  man,  of  strong  brain  and  heart,  had 
gained  his  fortune  and  reputation  at  a  bound,  and  up  to 
thirty-eight  he  wished  to  know  no  other  joy  but  helping 
men,  no  ease  but  satisfied  ambition.  Now  he  was  so  com- 
pletely in  love  that  everything  seemed  to  lose  its  colour  and 
taste  if  Bianca  Maria  was  not  present,  if  he  did  not  hear  her 
feeble,  sensitive  voice. 

In  love.  Why  not  ?  In  the  humblest,  meanest,  most 
obscure  lives,  that  warm,  bright  hour  comes — an  hour  of 
such  vast  capacity  that  it  includes  all  time  and  space.  So, 
in  lives  outwardly  successful,  when  the  pomp  of  earthly 
things  opens  out,  the  warm,  deep  hour  comes,  inward  and 
intense ;  all  is  gathered  up  in  the  heart,  the  soul  trembles 
with  passionate  strength.  Being  intensely  in  love,  with  all 
the  greater  force  and  violence  from  any  expression  of  feeling 
having  been  rare  in  past  years,  a  heart  like  Antonio  Amati's 
gathers  up  all  the  friendships  missed  or  neglected  :  affection 
for  relatives  and  congenial  people  ;  poetic  admiration  for 
women  that  was  kept  down,  never  shown,  conquered  some- 
times at  the  very  beginning,  and  almost  always  quickly 
forgotten  ;  all  the  thousand  attachments,  petty  and  great, 
the  human  heart  fritters  itself  away  on.  He  was  in  love 
knowingly,  willingly,  tasting  all  the  sweetness  of  this  late 
fruit  of  his  soul.  He  found  in  his  retarded  passion  the 


1 76  THE  LAND  OF  COCKAYNE 

thousand  and  one  characteristics  and  feelings  of  the  love 
affairs  and  attachments  he  had  never  had.  He  was  done 
with  the  great  renunciation  ;  he  was  in  love  knowingly. 

Bianca  Maria  was  in  love  without  knowing  it.  She  was 
simple  and  right-minded  ;  she  had  lived  a  solitary  life,  with 
no  conflicts,  thinking  and  praying  a  great  deal ;  her  soul 
was  refined  by  solitary  musing,  not  by  the  rough,  sore 
pounding  down  of  a  struggling  life.  From  her  mother,  who 
had  led  a  sad  life,  she  got  a  keen,  but  silent,  sensitiveness  ; 
from  her  father  she  had  taken  a  headstrong  loyalty,  pride 
without  haughtiness,  and  uncalculating  generosity  that 
delights  in  giving  without  interested  motives.  Over  it  all 
was  a  deep,  inbred  faith  that  seemed  to  be  rooted  in  her, 
the  food  of  her  spiritual  life,  just  as  the  lamps  lighted  before 
the  saints  are  fed  on  the  purest  oil,  and  draw  the  prayers  of 
the  faithful  from  a  distance  by  their  constant,  feeble  light. 
She  loved  unconsciously.  Who  could  have  told  her  any- 
thing about  it  ?  Her  mother  had  passed  away  seven  or 
eight  years  before  from  a  lingering,  fatal  illness,  suffering 
no  pain  or  sharp  spasms  ;  but  her  heart  was  pierced  with 
agony  for  her  almost  mad  husband,  who  was  hacking  down 
the  poor  feeble  stem  of  the  House  of  Cavalcanti  and  throwing 
its  branches  into  an  abyss — agony  for  the  poor  daughter  she 
left  behind  to  her  mad  father's  guidance,  who  was  going 
forward  to  wretchedness,  perhaps  dishonour. 

Bianca  Maria  remembered ;  she  recalled  her  mother's 
face  when  she  was  dying,  the  colour  of  clay  from  agonizing 
thoughts,  inconsolable  at  having  to  die  so  soon.  These  in- 
effaceable recollections  left  her  grave,  made  her  youth 
austere,  and  took  away  from  her  all  the  longings,  ambitions, 
and  coquettishness  of  her  age.  What  did  she  know  of 
love  ?  Nothing.  She  lived  in  a  dull  way,  with  no  enjoy- 
ments, beside  a  father  she  respected  ;  but  alarmed  by  his 
fatal  passion,  she  felt  threatened  by  something  obscure, 
but  imminent,  and  already  pinched  by  poverty,  she  took  to 
heart  the  necessary  doleful  shifts  to  keep  up  appearances. 
She  felt  an  unknown  danger  in  herself  like  the  seeds  of 
death  ;  and  now,  a  wise,  strong,  good  man — an  ark  of  safety 
in  danger,  formed  to  overcome  obstacles,  to  give  help ;  a 
giver  out  of  consolation,  whose  presence  and  voice  brought 
security  and  hope,  strong  to  lean  against ;  a  name  never 
associated  with  anything  foolish  ;  a  vanquisher  of  sickness, 
pure  of  any  stain — this  man  held  out  his  hand  to  save  her. 


AN  IDYLL  AND  MADNESS  177 

Well,  she  took  his  hand  ;  it  was  natural ;  she  could  not 
think  of  doing  anything  else  but  take  it  and  love  him. 

Unconsciously  she  loved  him,  because  she  must.  From 
her  age,  temperament,  and  surroundings,  her  whole  existence, 
she  felt  that  innocent  sort  of  love  that  weak  natures,  beaten 
down  by  tempests,  have  for  strong  ones. 

When  Bianca  Maria  was  alone  in  the  dreary  suite  of 
rooms  where  the  sparse  furniture  had  got  to  have  a  still  older, 
more  wretched  look,  with  these  old  servants  always  in  low 
spirits,  busied  in  hiding  their  poverty,  in  giving  it  an  air  of 
respectable  ease,  she  felt  chilled  to  the  heart ;  she  seemed 
to  be  old,  poor,  and  neglected  like  the  house  and  furniture, 
doomed  to  languish  on  in  want  of  everything.  And  when 
her  father  came  in,  uneasy  always,  led  by  his  violent  passions, 
his  one  idea,  credulous  over  vain  dreams,  giving  in  to  mystic 
alarms,  calling  around  him  a  terrifying  world  of  phantoms, 
she  lost  her  tranquillity  at  once  ;  her  brain  whirled,  and  she 
saw  curious  ghostly  things  with  fatal  effects.  She  could  not 
get  rid  of  the  nightmare ;  she  felt  so  weak,  so  unfit  to  defend 
herself  from  the  assaults  of  that  cabalistic  madness  ;  she 
shook  all  over  from  the  jar  to  her  nerves,  from  the  fever 
going  up  to  the  brain  and  making  it  reel. 

She  always  felt  very  wretched  when  she  was  alone  or 
with  her  father ;  helpless,  without  a  guide,  knocked  about 
by  a  rushing  wind,  drawn  in  by  a  whirlpool.  But  if  Antonio 
Amati  showed  his  manly  face,  his  genial  strength  ;  if  she 
heard  his  firm,  rather  rough  voice,  that  was  smooth  for  her ; 
if  his  hand  just  touched  hers,  so  that  she  felt  a  magnetic 
influence,  warmth,  youthful  vivacity,  go  through  her  nerves, 
she  knew  she  was  guided,  protected,  started  on  the  way  of 
life  and  happiness.  The  black  clouds  moved  off  with  one 
breath  ;  she  saw  the  blue  sky  ;  the  fever  grew  milder,  went 
off  altogether,  and  the  sombre  ghosts,  the  fears  that  blanched 
her  lips,  went  off  at  the  same  time ;  she  quieted  down  as  if 
a  heavenly  benediction  enfolded  her  in  its  sphere  of  help.  She 
felt  like  a  child  again  when  he  was  there  :  Amati  was  the 
firmest,  safest,  strongest. 

So  she  loved  him,  innocently,  unconsciously.  This  kind  of 
love  allows  of  great  humility,  great  tenderness  ;  it  was  pure 
and  fervent,  it  refreshed  her.  With  their  different  ground- 
work, the  two  sorts  of  love  understood  each  other,  melted 
into  and  completed  one  another.  That  spiritual  harmony 
that  is  the  soul's  finest,  but  also  rarest  and  shortest,  ex- 

12 


1 78  THE  LAND  OF  COCKAYNE 

perience  began  the  first  day  she  from  her  dull  balcony,  he 
from  his  stern  study,  that  saw  so  much  agony,  beheld  each 
other.  Wherever  the  two  minds,  feelings,  personalities 
met,  the  harmony  got  greater.  When  she  raised  her  great 
thoughtful  eyes  to  his,  asking  in  all  simplicity  for  help  and 
affection,  he  felt  his  heart  bound  with  a  longing  for  sacrifice. 
They  understood. each  other  perfectly  without  speaking. 

He  came  from  the  land,  from  a  small,  out-of-the-way 
provincial  town  that  had  little  communication  with  Naples  ; 
he  had  made  his  name  and  fortune  by  struggling  with  life 
and  death,  with  men's  indifference  and  hatred,  thus  getting 
a  formidable  idea  of  his  own  powers,  and  only  believing  in 
himself.  He  had  plebeian  blood  and  a  powerful  mind  ;  none 
of  the  refinement  that  comes  from  breeding  and  surround- 
ings, the  triumph  of  ideals. 

How  different  from  her!  She  was  the  daughter  of  a 
noble  house,  refined  by  instinct,  breeding,  and  surroundings ; 
used  to  live  in  meditation  and  prayer,  without  a  particle  of 
self-reliance  to  stand  out  against  the  ruin  of  her  family,  or 
withstand  her  father's  ruling  passion,  to  save  her  name  or 
herself.  She  lived  amid  privations  and  discomforts  ;  she 
had  set  out  too  early  on  the  sorrowful  stages  of  the  Via 
Crucis  ;  an  unhappy  future  was  before  her.  How  different 
and  far  off  these  two  were  ! 

Still,  they  understood  each  other,  as  the  secret,  mysterious 
law  of  love  decrees.  It  mingles  everything — feelings,  tradi- 
tion, origin  ;  puts  force  next  to  weakness,  and  binds  two 
persons  together  irrevocably  by  their  very  differences.  She 
did  not  consider  she  lowered  herself  by  loving  the  obscure 
Southern  peasant  become  a  great  doctor ;  he  did  not  consider 
he  stooped  to  this  decaying  family,  impoverished  in  blood, 
means,  and  courage.  The  two  souls  that  had  to  love  one 
another  had  set  out  far  apart,  had  had  to  run  through  infinite 
spiritual  space  to  meet,  know,  join  together.  It  is  Plato's 
grand  love  theory,  that  only  fools  and  heartless  folk  dare  to 
laugh  at ;  the  grand  theory  of  falling  in  love,  once  more, 
after  a  million  instances,  was  to  be  realized.  Did  it  not  seem 
arranged  purposely,  that  this  unknown,  common  man  should 
reach  to  fame  and  riches  by  his  own  efforts,  getting  to  know 
science  and  life  so  that  he  could  console  the  high-born  girl's 
cold,  faded,  sorrowful  youth,  languishing  in  solitude  and 
secret  poverty  ? 

When  the  serving  Sister  in  the  Sacramentiste  convent 


AN  IDYLL  AND  MADNESS  179 

ran  from  the  chilly  parlour,  where  Bianca  Maria  fell  in  a  faint, 
to  the  hospital  for  a  doctor,  and  obstinately  insisted  Antonio 
Amati  should  come  to  help  the  invalid,  that  was  the  hour  of 
the  decisive  meeting.  The  icy,  bloodless  hands  were  at  last 
enfolded  in  the  doctor's  strong,  healthy  ones  ;  once  more  the 
wonderful  attraction  by  which  loving  souls  overcome  time, 
space,  a  thousand  obstacles,  this  attraction — unlucky  he  who 
has  not  felt  its  power — brought  together  those  who  were 
bound  to  be  united.  How  could  it  be  these  two  were  not  to 
understand  each  other,  if  only  Antonio  Amati  could,  by  his 
knowledge,  save  Bianca  Maria  from  the  disease  sapping  her 
vital  forces,  if  only  he  could  give  her  health,  riches,  and  happi- 
ness ?  How  not  come  to  an  understanding  if  that  innocent 
gentleness,  that  mild  poesy,  that  source  of  every  affection,  if 
all  that  was  wanting  in  Antonio  Amati's  laborious,  stern 
life,  could  only  reach  him  through  Bianca  Maria's  slight, 
modest  personality  ? 

He  was  strength,  with  a  serene,  just  conscience  ;  she  was 
goodness,  all  unconscious  tenderness  and  mercy.  That 
strength  and  that  goodness  called  to  each  other  to  unite. 
They  were  obeying  destiny's  order  to  join,  so  that  love 
should  create  once  more  a  fine  miracle  of  harmony.  When 
she  had  to  will  something,  she  lifted  her  eyes  to  her  lover's 
face  and  drank  in  will  power.  When  he  looked  at  her  he 
felt  the  stretched  cords  of  his  energy  slacken  and  the  great 
flower  of  benignity  blossom  in  his  heart. 

But  it  was  destined  that  all  Amati's  experiences  in  life 
were  to  be  conflicts,  that  every  reward  men  of  talent  and 
energy  get  in  this  life  should  only  be  gained  by  him  after  a 
fierce  struggle.  With  love  it  was  the  same.  A  serious 
obstacle  arose  between  him  and  Bianca  Maria  Cavalcanti. 
It  was  her  father,  the  Marquis.  The  first  time  Amati  saw 
the  proud,  deluded,  violent  man,  he  felt  a  painful  suspicion 
rise  in  his  mind.  He  divined  dull  hostility  in  Formosa. 
Perhaps  birth,  past  and  present  conditions,  divided  them, 
the  opposite  ideas  they  had  of  life  and  its  responsibilities. 
Perhaps  the  one  that  came  from  the  earth,  bringing  forth 
good  like  her,  scorned  this  falling  away  in  health,  fortune, 
and  respectability.  Perhaps  he  who  lived  by  the  arrogant 
rules  of  a  life  given  up  to  luxury,  pleasure,  and  generosity, 
despised  the  obstinate,  unpolished  worker,  sparing  in 
pleasures,  unfavourable  to  them,  too  hard  on  himself  and  on 
others.  Perhaps  the  one  guessed  the  other's  scorn,  and  felt 

12 — 2 


i8o  THE  LAND  OF  COCKAYNE 

miles  apart,  with  such  different  ideas  that  they  could  never 
meet.  Perhaps  the  reason  of  the  mutual  antipathy,  of 
Amati's  coldness  and  Formosa's  hostility,  was  more  inward, 
deeper,  more  mysterious.  It  may  be  neither  dared  confess 
it  to  himself.  In  short,  it  was  suspicion,  distrust,  an  un- 
conscious hostility.  Indeed,  Amati  saw  in  Carlo  Cavalcanti 
the  unknown  danger  that  might  wreck  Bianca  Maria's  reason 
and  life.  It  was  vaguely,  but  obstinately,  without  well 
knowing  why  or  wherefore ;  but  he  felt  the  danger  was  there. 
And  Carlo  Cavalcanti  felt  Antonio  Amati  was  his  judge — 
his  enemy,  I  would  almost  say.  Twice,  when  the  doctor 
was  present  at  Bianca  Maria's  fainting-fit  and  at  the  attack 
of  fever,  that  made  her  delirious  a  day  and  a  night,  he  said 
harsh  things  to  the  Marquis  di  Formosa  about  his  daughter's 
health.  The  old  man  listened,  quivering  with  rage,  fretting 
inwardly.  He  submitted  to  this  deliverer  from  a  dark  hour, 
but  he  looked  haughtily  at  him,  and  shrugged  his  shoulders 
when  he  threatened  that  the  girl  would  die.  By  what 
blindness  did  he  always  refuse  to  take  Bianca  Maria  away 
from  that  cold,  mean  house,  where  all  her  youthful  strength 
was  languishing  ?  At  any  rate,  he  obstinately  refused, 
quivering  with  emotion  every  time  the  doctor  touched  on 
the  subject.  It  seemed  to  be  from  affection,  pride,  and 
nervousness,  as  if  he  knew  what  the  right  remedy  was,  and 
could  not,  would  not,  make  use  of  it.  Full  of  doubt,  the 
doctor  got  always  nearer  to  something  shady,  but  he 
checked  himself,  fearing  to  wound  certain  susceptibilities. 
The  Marquis  was  poor  :  how  could  he  change  houses  ?  It 
was  natural  for  him  to  redden  with  fright  and  melancholy 
when  he  was  told  his  daughter  was  fading  away  to  a  fatal 
ending,  to  frown  with  offended  pride  when  offers  of  service 
were  made.  Still,  his  pride  had  had  to  give  way  that 
Saturday  morning  he  asked  Amati  for  a  loan,  saying  he 
would  give  it  back  during  the  day.  His  pride  had  had  to 
go  altogether  several  other  times,  always  on  Saturday,  with 
an  urgent  note  in  a  large,  shaky  hand  asking  for  money — 
more  money  out  of  Amati's  purse,  always  promising  to  give 
it  back  the  same  day,  always  failing  to  do  so. 

He  blushed  a  little  as  he  wrote,  his  old  head  bent  to  weep 
over  his  lost  dignity  as  an  old  man  and  a  gentleman  ;  but  his 
passion  was  so  strong  he  would  have  made  money  out  of 
anything.  When  the  doctor  sent  him  the  money  in  an 
envelope,  and  then  another  sheet  of  paper,  so  that  the  servant 


AN  IDYLL  AND  MADNESS  181 

should  not  notice  what  it  was,  the  Marquis  felt  mortified, 
and  opened  the  envelope  roughly  with  a  sharp  tear,  and  the 
blood  went  to  his  head.  Amati  never  wrote  a  reply,  but  he 
never  refused.  In  the  evening,  when  father  and  daughter 
were  in  the  drawing-room,  she  working  at  her  fine  lace,  he 
going  up  and  down  the  room  to  quiet  his  excited  nerves,  the 
doctor  would  come  in.  The  Marquis  could  hardly  restrain 
his  annoyance,  but  went  forward  to  meet  his  visitor  with 
sham  heartiness,  his  face  pale.  They  greeted  one  another 
in  an  embarrassed  way,  while  Bianca  Maria's  face  sparkled. 
In  spite  of  service  rendered,  no  cordiality  grew  up  between 
them.  They  were  cold,  and  took  stock  of  each  other,  feeling 
they  were  enemies.  When  the  doctor,  from  his  native 
audacity,  and  that  which  love  gave  him,  went  to  sit  opposite 
Bianca  Maria  and  asked  her  about  her  health,  when  they 
gazed  in  each  other's  eyes,  the  Marquis  was  troubled,  an 
angry  quiver  came  into  his  voice.  He  was  the  obstacle. 
It  was  in  vain  every  time  his  ruling  passion  obliged  him  to 
ask  Amati  for  money  that  Amati  gave  it  without  hesitation, 
more  delicately  each  time.  It  was  lowering  all  the  same. 
This  queer  intimacy  could  not  rid  them  of  suspicion,  want 
of  confidence,  antipathy.  Perhaps  these  loans,  asked  with 
a  lying  excuse,  lying  promises,  only  dug  that  gulf  of  sorrow, 
shame,  and  humiliation  that  is  between  him  who  asks  and 
him  who  gives.  Formosa's  great  dream  now  was  to  get 
money — a  lot  of  money,  so  as  to  lead  a  grand  life,  after 
throwing  the  doctor's  sous  in  his  face  and  turning  him  out. 
He  ended  by  hating  him  for  these  benefits  it  was  so  hard  to 
ask  for,  that  his  wretched  passion  drove  him  to  take. 

Antonio  Amati  understood ;  he  knew  Formosa  stood  in 
the  way.  Naturally,  he  knew  what  was  the  greedy  mouth 
that  swallowed  up  all  the  old  man's  money,  and  some  that 
was  not  his  ;  he  knew  the  fever  that  destroyed  his  gentle- 
manly feeling,  that  the  wretchedness  was  the  result  of  sin  ; 
he  knew  an  irresistible  force  obliged  him  to  ask  for  these 
loans.  His  only  wish  was  that  Bianca  Maria  should  not 
suffer,  that  she  should  get  out  of  these  sad,  poverty-stricken, 
mad  surroundings,  ever  since  the  time  she  had,  in  a  low  state 
of  health,  bodily  and  mentally,  induced  by  fever,  told  him  she 
loved  him  and  begged  him  to  take  her  away.  He  renewed 
the  offer  of  his  country  house,  where  his  mother  was,  more 
than  once.  She  shook  her  head,  smiled  sadly,  and  said 
nothing.  One  evening  when  she  was  suffering  very  much, 


1 82  THE  LAND  OF  COCKAYNE 

choking  with  heat  in  that  flat,  airless  in  summer,  icy  in 
winter,  he  made  the  offer  to  Formosa,  bringing  it  out 
naturally,  trying  to  be  cordial.  Formosa  thought  it  over  a 
moment.  His  daughter  looked  anxiously  at  him,  awaiting 
his  answer. 

'  It  is  impossible,'  said  the  Marquis  di  Formosa  concisely. 

'  Why  so  ?'  the  doctor  asked  boldly. 

'  Just  because  I  choose,'  the  old  man  retorted  obstinately. 

'  And  you,  my  lady  ;  what  do  you  say  ?' 

The  doctor  looked  earnestly  at  her,  to  give  her  the  strength 
to  rebel.  The  poor  girl's  eyelids  fluttered  once  or  twice. 
She  looked  at  her  father,  then  said  : 

'  As  my  father  says,  it  is  impossible.' 

He  would  have  liked  to  remind  her  then  of  the  sweet 
words  she  said  to  him  one  day,  to  take  her  out  of  that  pit, 
to  carry  her  far  off  to  the  sunny,  green  country ;  but  he 
noticed  a  sudden  coldness  in  her  cast-down  eyes  and  stern 
mouth ;  he  felt  her  soul  was  escaping  from  him.  He 
understood  he  had  come  into  conflict  with  filial  obedience 
of  that  deep,  unshakable,  almost  hierarchical  kind  one  meets 
with  in  the  upper  classes,  where  paternal  authority  is  blindly 
respected  and  family  reigns  absolute.  Rage  rose  in  the 
doctor's  heart.  He  fretted  against  the  obstacle,  seeing  the 
power  of  love  crumble  in  a  moment  before  a  simpler  but 
older  feeling  or  instinct,  an  affection  which,  besides  the  ties 
of  blood,  had  tradition  and  life  in  common  for  it  also.  He 
did  not  say  a  word,  nor  cast  a  reproving  glance,  as  he  saw 
it  was  a  superior  power  rising  against  him  that  for  twenty 
years  had  held  the  girl's  heart.  Love  seemed  suddenly  to 
have  lost  its  power,  as  at  a  word  from  her  father  she  had 
been  able  to  give  up  the  idyll  she  had  dreamt  over  so  long 
in  her  empty  room. 

After  a  little  the  doctor  went  away,  cold,  frozen,  like  the 
father  and  daughter,  who  looked  like  ghosts  in  that  great 
deserted  house.  He  went  off  with  his  first  love  disappoint- 
ment, which  is  the  bitterest,  quivering  with  rage  and  grief. 
When  he  was  alone  in  his  handsome,  solitary  house,  he 
vainly  tried  to  amuse  himself  by  reading  a  scientific  review. 
He  was  wounded  in  his  love  and  in  his  self-love. 

Like  a  love-lorn  youth,  to  cheat  that  bitterness  and  give 
a  vent  to  his  excitement,  he  sat  down  to  write  a  long,  in- 
coherent letter  full  of  love  and  rage.  But  when  he  finished 
it  he  calmed  down.  It  seemed  unjust  to  accuse  Bianca 


AN  IDYLL  AND  MADNESS  183 

ilaria  of  indifference  and  cruelty.  On  reading  it  over,  he 
thought  it  ridiculous.  He  was  a  man,  not  a  boy  ;  he  had 
white  hairs  ;  he  ought  not  to  give  himself  over  to  boyish 
outaursts. 

'  1  will  tear  up  the  letter,'  he  said.  But  he  afterwards 
felt  dscouraged.  The  first,  purest  flower  of  his  poetic  love 
was  cat  off ;  the  idyll  had  vanished  ;  the  whole  future  could 
only  be  a  tragedy. 

Yes.  the  combat  between  Antonio  Amati  and  Carlo 
Cavalcanti  was  secret  but  obstinate,  subtle  but  very  acute. 
The  old  man  had  great  power  over  his  daughter ;  one  might 
say  he  bent  her  will  to  his  with  an  imperious,  fascinating 
glance.  He  did  not  wish  anyone  else  should  get  power  over 
her ;  he  feared  to  lose  his  influence.  From  paternal  self- 
love,  that  exaggerated  jealousy  that  hates  from  the  beginning 
those  who  love  their  children,  or  some  other  mysterious 
reason,  he  set  himself  between  his  daughter  and  Antonio 
Amati  when  he  saw  the  latter's  sway  might  increase.  When 
they  were  alone  they  never  mentioned  him — on  her  part  out 
of  obedience,  for  she  always  waited  for  her  father  to  speak 
first,  and  he  never  named  the  doctor.  The  maiden  was 
sensitive  about  this  reserve,  and  got  more  and  more  self-con- 
tained, already  seeing  the  first  sad  symptoms  of  the  struggle. 

Amati  had  written  her  just  one  letter ;  she  treasured  it 
and  read  it  over  and  over,  because  it  breathed  of  honesty, 
peace,  strength,  which  were  altogether  wanting  in  her 
wretched,  disturbed  life,  with  its  saddening  past,  hurrying 
on  to  a  dark  future.  She  bent  her  head,  even  now  feeling 
that  love  could  not  save  her,  for  she  seemed  tied  by  a  sad 
fatality,  by  a  charm  cast  over  her  life.  When  Antonio 
Amati  came  back  in  the  evening,  determined  not  to  yield  to 
this  extraordinary  tyranny  of  the  father's,  she  looked  up 
timidly  at  them  ;  the  false  cordiality  and  vivacity  with  which 
the  men  greeted  each  other  encouraged  her.  A  pink  colour 
came  to  her  pale  cheeks  ;  but  if  her  father  frowned  or  the 
doctor's  voice  got  hard  she  became  pale  and  alarmed  again. 
Her  father  had  carefully  hidden  that  he  got  pecuniary  help 
from  the  doctor ;  he  was  ashamed  to  confess  this  loss  of 
dignity  his  ruling  passion  had  dragged  him  into.  The 
good,  pale  maiden  took  courage  when  she  saw  the  healthy, 
hearty  hand  held  out  to  her  to  pull  her  out  of  her  unhealthy 
surroundings ;  but  when  her  father  abruptly,  roughly  put 
away  that  hand,  she  trembled  ;  she  did  not  ask  why.  Her 


1 84  THE  LAND  OF  COCK  A  YNE 

mother  had  pined  away  too  resignedly  for  her  to  dare  to 
rebel.  Only  she  just  lived  from  day  to  day  without  goin£ 
into  the  disagreements  between  her  father  and  Amati,  lettirg 
herself  go  to  the  sweetness  of  the  new  feeling,  trying  to 
escape  from  her  bitter  presentiments.  But  he,  a  mat  of 
science  and  much  given  to  observation,  rinding  her  father's 
conduct  incomprehensible,  tried  to  curb  himself  so  as  to 
tear  the  secret  out  of  Formosa's  heart.  He  kne\r  the 
gambling  fever  devoured  him.  Sometimes,  when  he  was 
with  Bianca  Maria  in  the  drawing-room,  two  or  three  af  the 
Cabalist  group  would  come  in  to  ask  for  the  Marquis.  He 
got  rather  embarrassed.  Once  he  shut  himself  up  in  his 
study  with  them  ;  voices  reached  them  from  there,  deadened 
and  indistinct.  Twice  he  went  out  with  them,  the  doctor's 
presence  making  him  impatient  and  nervous. 

'  Who  are  those  people  ?'  the  doctor  asked. 

'  They  are  friends,'  she  said,  turning  away  her  head. 

'  Are  they  yours  ?' 

'  No  ;  my  father's.' 

She  let  him  see  she  did  not  wish  to  speak  about  them,  so 
he  held  his  tongue.  Another  time,  one  Friday  evening,  Don 
Pasqualino  De  Feo  came  in,  with  his  sickly  look  and  torn, 
dirty  clothes.  At  once  the  doctor  remembered  he  had  seen 
him.  Yes,  at  the  hospital,  where  he  arrived  black  and  blue, 
knocked  about  as  if  he  had  got  a  severe  licking ;  and  he 
remembered  his  fantastic  talk.  While  the  medium  was 
whispering  with  the  Marquis  in  a  window  recess,  the  doctor 
asked  Bianca  quietly  : 

' Is  he  a  friend,  too  ?'  But  he  noticed  she  got  so  pale, 
her  eyes  so  frightened,  crushed  by  fear  of  something  he 
knew  nothing  about,  that  he  said  no  more.  He  remembered 
that,  on  recovering  from  her  long  faint,  she  had  tried  to  send 
the  medium  out  of  the  house.  '  You  dislike  him,  don't  you?' 

'  No,  no,'  said  she.     '  I  am  foolish.' 

She  was  afraid  Amati  would  interrupt  her  father's  con- 
versation ;  but  finding  their  talk  prevented,  they  got  up  to 
go  away.  The  medium  went  past  with  his  eyes  down,  but 
Amati  called  out  to  him  : 

'  You  have  got  over  that  licking,  De  Feo  ?' 

He  started,  rubbed  his  forehead,  and  answered,  without 
looking  at  the  doctor : 

'  I  have  had  favour  from  him  who  sent  me  the  misfortune.' 

'  From  whom  ?'  asked  the  doctor,  with  a  mocking  laugh. 


AN  IDYLL  AND  MADNESS  185 

The  medium  said  nothing.  Formosa  got  flushed.  His 
eyes  sparkled  as  he  answered,  in  a  shaky  voice : 

'  From  the  spirit.1 

'  What  spirit  ?'  said  the  doctor  jokingly. 

'  Caraco,  the  spirit  that  helps  Don  Pasqualino,'  the  Marquis 
said  emphatically. 

'  Do  you  believe  that,  my  lord  ?'  Amati  retorted,  casting 
on  him  a  scrutinizing  glance. 

'It  is  as  clear  as  light,'  answered  the  noble,  raising  his 
eyes  to  heaven  ecstatically. 

'  And  you,  my  lady,  do  you  believe  it  ?'  the  doctor  asked 
Bianca,  examining  her  face. 

She  was  just  going  to  answer  she  did  not  believe,  that  she 
was  afraid  to  believe,  when  a  wild  look  from  her  father 
froze  the  words  on  her  lips.  One  saw  the  effort  she  made 
to  send  back  a  sorrowful  cry.  Vaguely  she  waved  her  hand, 
and  said  : 

'  I  know  nothing  about  it.' 

The  medium  cast  an  oblique  glance  at  the  doctor.  For 
the  first  time  an  enraged  look  came  over  his  face  and 
mingled  with  his  mysterious  humility.  He  twisted  his  neck, 
as  if  a  hard  bone  was  choking  him.  He  pulled  the  Marquis's 
sleeve  in  an  underhand  way  to  get  him  to  go  away  ;  but  by 
Amati's  words  and  grin  had  he  found  out  his  utter  incredulity, 
and,  like  all  deluded  folk,  he  felt  his  faith  in  the  aiding  spirit 
increased  doubly,  together  with  a  great  desire  to  convince 
Amati. 

'  You  don't  believe  in  the  spirit,  doctor  ?' 

'  No,'  said  the  latter  dryly. 

'  Neither  in  good  nor  bad  spirits  ?' 

'  In  neither.' 

'  Why  ?' 

'  Because  there  are  no  such  things.' 

'  Who  told  you  so  ?' 

'  Science  and  facts  are  enough,  it  seems  to  me,'  the  doctor 
said  plainly. 

'  Science  is  sacrilege,'  shouted  the  Marquis,  getting  in  a 
rage.  '  It  has  been  proved  spirits  do  exist ;  I  can  prove  it 
to  you.' 

'  It  is  no  use ;  I  would  not  believe  you ' — with  a  slight 
smile. 

'  There  are  spirits ;  the  so-called  incredulous  deny  their 
existence  in  bad  faith — yes,  because  they  don't  know  the 


1 86  THE  LAND  OF  COCKAYNE 

facts,  and  then  say  they  are  false ;  because  they  see  nothing, 
their  eyes  being  blinded  by  scepticism,  they  say  there  is 
nothing — insincerely  altogether.' 

The  doctor  smiled  at  his  excitement,  but,  glancing  at 
Bianca  Maria,  he  saw  she  was  in  torment ;  he  guessed  that 
behind  this  discussion  was  the  secret  of  the  hostility.  Being 
accustomed  to  sick  and  excited  people's  outbursts,  he  exam- 
ined the  Marquis  with  a  doctor's  eye,  following  the  violent 
stages  of  his  excitement. 

'  Quite  insincere — quite!'  the  Marquis  screamed  out,  going 
up  and  down  the  room,  speaking  to  himself.  '  Hundreds  of 
honest  men,  scientists,  gentlemen,  ladies,  have  seen,  touched, 
spoken  with  the  spirits,  held  important  interviews  with 
them ;  there  are  printed  books,  thick  volumes,  about  the 
very  thing  you  deny  totally.  What  do  you  think  this  help 
from  the  spirits  is  ?' 

He  stopped  in  front  of  Amati  to  ask  him  the  question. 
Although  the  doctor  did  not  want  to  make  him  angrier  by 
contradiction,  the  demand  was  too  direct  not  to  answer  it. 
He  glanced  at  the  Lady  Bianca,  and  saw  in  her  face  such 
secret  anxiety  to  know  the  truth,  and  such  agitation,  he 
brought  it  out  straight : 

'  I  believe  it  is  an  imposture.' 

The  medium  cast  up  his  eyes,  swimming  in  tears.  Bianca 
Maria's  face  got  serene,  but  Formosa's  voice  hissed  with  rage : 

'  Then,  you  think  me  a  fool  ?' 

'  No ;  but  your  soul  is  too  loyal  and  generous  not  to  be 
easily  cheated.' 

'  Nonsense  !'  the  Marquis  called  out,  quivering — '  non- 
sense !  You  can't  get  out  of  it ;  Don  Pasqualino  is  a  cheat, 
and  I  am  a  donkey.' 

*  I  deny  the  second  part,'  said  the  doctor  dryly. 
'  But  you  agree  to  the  first  ?' 

'  Yes,  I  do,'  said  the  doctor  boldly. 

*  How  do  you  prove  it  ?' 

'There  is  no  need  to  prove  it;  I  answer  because  you 
question  me.  Besides,  now  I  remember,  Don  Pasqualino 
was  beaten  by  two  gamblers,  enraged  because  they  did  not 
get  the  right  lottery  numbers.  He  told  you  it  was  the  spirit 
Caracd.' 

*  It  was  all  a  pretence,  the  gamblers  beating  him,  so  as  to 
keep  the  spirit's  secret.' 

'  But  the  two  that  assaulted  him  were  arrested  and  con- 


AN  IDYLL  AND  MADNESS  187 

fronted  with  him  at  the  hospital ;  they  had  to  spend  a  month 
in  prison.' 

'  Is  that  true,  Don  Pasqualino  ?'  the  Marquis  asked 
severely. 

The  medium  looked  distressed,  as  if  it  were  impossible 
for  him  to  defend  himself  against  an  unjust  accusation. 
But  the  doctor  was  offended  at  that  request  for  confirma- 
tion. 

'  My  lord,'  he  said  solemnly,  «  I  am  too  serious  a  man  and 
take  too  little  interest  to  care  to  go  into  the  business  with 
that  fellow.  If  you  have  any  esteem  for  me,  I  beg  you  to 
spare  me  further  discussion.' 

'  All  right — very  good,'  the  Marquis  said  at  once,  his 
proud  spirit  being  open  to  any  appeal  to  good  feeling.  '  Let 
us  have  no  more  of  it ;  discussions  between  sceptics  and 
believers  can  only  be  unpleasant.  Let  us  go  away,  Don 
Pasqualino ;  perhaps  the  doctor  will  do  you  justice  some 
day.  Let  us  go  ;  I  see  Bianca  Maria  is  pained  also.  You 
must  convince  the  doctor,  my  dear,'  the  father  added  rather 
maliciously. 

'  In  what  way  is  she  to  do  that  ?'  asked  he,  astonished. 

'  She  will  tell  you,'  Formosa  replied,  grinning ;  and  on 
getting  a  dismayed  look  from  his  daughter,  he  added  :  '  Tell 
him — tell  him  what  you  know  ;  I  allow  you,  Bianca.  Per- 
haps he  will  believe  you.  You  are  harmless  ;  you  have  no 
interest  in  cheating  ;  you  are  not  a  sham  apostle.  Tell  him 
all  about  it ;  perhaps  you  will  convince  him.' 

Resolutely  he  put  on  his  hat  and  took  the  medium's  arm, 
as  if  to  give  him  a  proof  of  affectionate  confidence  after  the 
way  the  doctor  had  abused  him.  The  old  noble,  Guido 
Cavalcanti's  descendant,  with  a  lineage  of  six  centuries,  put 
his  arm  into  that  mean  cheat's,  who  had  been  shown  up  as 
a  liar  a  few  minutes  before.  But  who  noticed  that  act  that 
showed  Formosa  had  again  shipwrecked  his  dignity  ?  The 
two  were  out  of  the  house  already.  Bianca  Maria  and  the 
doctor  stood  silently  ;  the  whole  drama  of  their  love  seemed 
to  ripen  in  that  silence.  With  unscrupulous  cunning, 
telling  his  daughter  to  speak,  let  the  doctor  know  all, 
leaving  them  alone  with  that  secret  between  them,  the 
Marquis  took  his  revenge  for  Amati's  scepticism  and  his 
daughter's  passiveness.  He  gaily  and  cruelly  lighted  the 
match  of  a  mine,  and  then  went  off  just  as  it  was  catching 
fire,  so  that  all  love's  edifice  should  come  down. 


1 88  THE  LAND  OF  COCKAYNE 

'  Well,  what  have  you  to  tell  me  ?'  said  the  doctor  at  last, 
keen  to  know  the  truth. 

'  What  is  it  ?'  she  said  faintly,  coming  out  of  her  sad 
musing. 

'  Have  you  not  something  to  tell  me  ?  Did  your  father 
not  advise — almost  order  you  to  do  so  ?' 

She  started.  Amati  spoke  sharply  ;  she  had  never  heard 
him  speak  so.  She  was  offended,  and  became  reserved. 

'  I  know  nothing,'  she  said  very  low.  '  I  have  nothing  to 
tell  you.' 

He  bit  his  lip  angrily.  What  evil  influence  had  induced 
him  to  come  between  father  and  daughter  in  these  queer, 
mad  surroundings,  all  sickness,  wretchedness,  and  vice  ? 
What  was  he  doing,  with  his  rough  honesty,  his  vulgar 
integrity,  in  that  half  insane,  poverty-struck  life  ?  What 
bonds,  what  perplexities,  was  he  not  making  for  his  own 
heart,  that  up  to  then  had  kept  pure  and  unmoved  ?  The 
decisive  hour  had  come.  He  must  break  it  off  sharply  if  he 
wanted  to  escape  the  fetters  that  smothered  all  his  old 
instincts.  He  was  going  to  make  an  end  of  these  romantic 
complications — that  subtle,  annoying  tragedy ;  his  life  was 
a  plain  one.  He  got  up  determinedly,  saying : 

'Good-bye!' 

She  rose  too.  She  understood  that  her  father  first, 
then  she,  had  exhausted  the  lion's  patience.  Feebly  she 
asked : 

'  You  will  come  to-morrow  ?' 

<  No,  I  will  not.' 

'  Some  other  day,  then  ?' 

'No.' 

'  Some  other  day  when  you  are  not  busy  ?' 

'No.' 

The  three  '  No's '  were  said  very  decidedly.  Bianca 
Maria  gave  a  shiver.  He  was  going  away  ;  he  would  never 
come  back.  He  was  right.  He  was  a  strong,  serious  man, 
devoted  to  his  work — a  work  of  love  and  saving  others.  He 
was  getting  involved  in  a  falling  away  from  reason  and 
dignity  in  the  society  of  people  he  was  helping  and  being 
friendly  to,  and  as  a  return  he  had  been  slighted  and  in- 
sulted ;  and  now  a  charlatan,  a  cheat,  was  preferred  to  him. 
He  was  right  to  go  away,  never  to  come  back.  But  she  felt 
lost,  a  prey  to  insanity,  if  she  let  him  go.  Looking  beseech- 
ingly at  him,  she  implored  him  : 


AN  IDYLL  AND  MADNESS  189 

'  Don't  go  away — stay.' 

'  What  is  there  for  me  to  do  here  ?  Ought  I  to  wait  for 
your  father  to  turn  me  out  to-morrow  ?  Because  I  stood 
that  scene  a  little  ago,  must  I  stand  another  ?' 

'  I  did  not  do  anything  to  you,'  said  she,  wringing  her 
hands  to  keep  down  her  sorrow. 

'  Good-bye  !'  he  said,  and  nothing  else. 

'  Don't  go  away — don't  go  away  !' 

Two  big  tears  she  could  not  keep  back  rolled  down  her 
cheeks.  He  had  refused  to  give  in  to  her  voice,  beseeching 
pallor,  and  excitement,  but  he  gave  in  to  her  tears.  He  was 
a  hard  man  in  his  success,  but  a  child's,  a  woman's  tears 
made  him  forget  everything.  When  she  saw  him  come 
back  and  sit  down,  his  good  nature  making  him  yield,  she 
did  not  restrain  her  choking  tears.  She  sank  into  her  chair 
again,  her  face  hid  in  her  handkerchief,  sobbing. 

'  Don't  cry,'  he  muttered,  feeling  that  it  did  her  good,  but 
that  he  could  not  bear  it. 

A  good  deal  of  time  was  needed  before  she  could  calm 
herself.  She  had  kept  in  her  feelings  too  much  for  the 
outburst  to  be  otherwise  than  long  and  noisy.  The  June 
evening  was  very  warm ;  the  scirocco's  breath  depressed 
sickly  nerves.  The  only  sound  was  a  skilfully  played  wail- 
ing mandoline  in  the  distance  up  Pontecorvo  Hill. 

'  Listen,'  the  doctor  began,  not  harshly,  but  coldly,  when 
he  saw  she  had  got  quieter.  '  I  hope  you  will  listen  to  me 
quietly.  I  am  an  intruder  in  your  family.  Don't  interrupt 
me  ;  I  know  what  you  would  say.  I  cured  you  twice ;  but 
that  is  my  work ;  you  have  no  need  to  feel  obliged  to  me. 
Don't  protest ;  I  know  the  limits  of  human  feeling.  I  am 
an  intruder,  then.  There  is  nothing  in  common  between 
you  and  me  ;  we  are  different  kinds.  It  does  not  matter. 
I,  who  am  not  dreamy,  seeing  you  are  fading  away,  that 
you  need  the  wide,  healthy  country  and  solitude,  tried  to 
get  you  away  from  here.  If  my  dream  has  not  come  true, 
whose  fault  is  it — yours  or  mine  ?' 

'  It  is  mine,'  she  said  humbly. 

'  One  day,'  the  doctor  went  on  rather  slowly,  as  if  he  was 
thinking  over  what  had  happened — '  one  day  you  yourself 
told  me  to  take  you  away.  Do  you  remember  ?  .  .  .' 

'  I  remember  .  .  .' 

' .  .  .  I  thought  ...  it  is  no  use  saying  what  I  thought. 
I  must  have  been  mistaken  ;  but  any  man  in  my  place 


190  THE  LAND  OF  COCKAYNE 

would  have  been.    Well,  when  our  dream  might  have  come 
true,  Bianca,  tell  me,  who  was  it  let  it  fade  away  ?' 

'  I  myself.     It  was  I.' 

'  You  see,  then,  that  I,  a  man  of  realities  and  action, 
dreamt  too  much.  To  your  father  and  you  I  am  a  sort  of 
intruder,  meddling  in  your  affairs  without  having  any  right 
to,  and  ineffectually.  On  the  other  hand,  Bianca,  believe 
me,  my  whole  life  has  been  disturbed  through  wishing  to 
see  you  healthy  and  happy,  and  from  the  useless  struggle 
my  efforts  lead  to,  for  you  oppose  me  yourself.  Would  I 
not  do  well,  then,  to  go  away  and  never  come  back  ?' 

'  You  are  right,'  she  said,  with  a  despairing  gesture. 

' .  .  .  Still,'  Amati  went  on,  striving  to  hide  his  agitation, 
'  I  believe — rather,  I  know — leaving  you  would  cause  me 
great  pain.  It  may  be,  you  too  would  suffer  ?'  questioning 
her  face. 

'  I  should  die  of  it,'  she  brought  out,  sincerely  moved. 

'  Don't  say  that.  But  if  I  am  to  stay  near  you,  Bianca, 
to  try,  against  your  will  and  your  own  weakness,  to  save 
your  health  and  fortune,  I  must  be  your  friend — your 
greatest,  only  friend ;  do  you  understand  ?  I  must  have 
your  whole  confidence  and  faith  ;  after  God,  you  must 
believe  in  me.  I  can  see  that  here,  in  this  house,  there  is 
a  sad  secret  which  your  father  and  you  vainly  try  to  hide  ; 
but  the  Marquis  di  Formosa's  feverishness  lets  it  out  darkly 
every  minute.  Besides  this  fever,  that  is  at  the  same  time 
a  disease,  an  overmastering  passion  and  vice,  there  is  some- 
thing that  escapes  me,  something  crueller  that  tortures  you, 
and  you,  out  of  filial  piety,  respect  to  your  father — fear, 
perhaps — hide  it  from  me.  Bianca,  if  I  am  not  to  know 
everything,  I  must  go  away  for  ever,  and  let  your  life  and 
mine  be  ruined  irretrievably.' 

'  I  love  you  so,'  she  said,  abandoning  her  soul  to  him. 

'  Darling  !'  he  whispered,  patting  her  brown  hair  as  her 
head  leant  for  a  moment  on  his  strong,  faithful  heart. 

'  Promise  me  one  thing  .  .  .'  she  asked  in  a  babyish  way. 

'Say  what  it  is.  .  .  .' 

1  Promise  me  you  won't  think  ill  of  my  father — promise  ! 
He  is  the  best  of  fathers ;  any  girl  would  be  proud  to  have 
him.  Nothing  could  shake  my  respect  and  love  for  him. 
I  want  you  not  to  blame  him  for  anything — promise  me ! 
His  fatal  tendency  is  only  part  of  his  kindness.  He  is  so 
unhappy  at  heart !' 


AN  IDYLL  AND  MADNESS  191 

'  I  promise  you,  Bianca,  to  be  as  indulgent  as  you 
could  be.' 

'  That  is  enough.  He  is  an  unhappy  man.  For  years 
and  years  our  house  has  been  going  down.  Since  when  or 
why  I  don't  remember.  I  was  very  little.  I  don't  even 
know  whose  fault  it  is.  I  don't  wish  to.  I  only  remember 
that  my  mother  was  pale  and  sickly ;  her  hands  were  always 
cold.  .  .  .' 

'  Like  yours,  poor  dear  !' 

'  Like  mine  ?'  she  answered  with  a  pale  smile. 

'  What  did  your  mother  die  of?' 

'  Bloodlessness  and  languor.  She  faded  away  ...  at  the 
last,  she  was  not  in  her  senses  all  the  time.' 

'  Did  she  rave  ?' 

'  Yes,  slightly,'  she  answered,  blushing  to  her  forehead. 

'  Don't  think  of  that,'  he  said,  guessing  the  reason  of  her 
blush. 

'  My  father  felt  mother's  sufferings  so  much  !  For  years  a 
dream  had  taken  hold  of  him  :  it  was  to  build  up  the  Caval- 
canti  fortune,  to  let  mother  and  me  live  in  style,  keep  open 
house,  and  in  one  day  pour  out  in  charity  what  now  serves 
to  keep  us  for  a  year,'  she  added,  with  a  lump  in  her  throat. 

'  Keep  calm,  dear — don't  get  excited.' 

'  No,  no,  let  me  speak ;  if  I  don't  I'll  choke.  A  great 
dream,  as  large  as  his  heart,  noble  and  generous  as  his  soul, 
so  much  so  that  my  mother  and  I  felt  gratitude  that  will  not 
end  with  life,  but  must  go  on  beyond  the  tomb,  where  one 
still  hears,  loves,  and  prays.  But,  with  his  excited  fancy,  he 
longed  for  quick,  ample  methods  of  realizing  this  fortune : 
methods  suited  to  the  case,  for  a  Cavalcanti  neither  works 
nor  speculates  .  .  .' 

'  It  was  the  lottery,'  Amati  finished  up  for  her. 

'  Yes,  the  lottery ;  how  do  you  know  ?' 

'  I  do  know.' 

'  Our  misfortune  is  known  to  everyone  who  conies  near 
us,'  she  went  on,  quivering  with  grief.  '  Such  a  misfortune, 
to  crown  the  others !  Mother  died  of  it,  from  physical  and 
moral  weakness.  Our  whole  means  are  sacrificed  to  it ;  it 
has  taken  my  father's  heart  from  me  ;  when  it  has  destroyed 
all  that  is  dearest,  it  will  hand  me  over  to  wretchedness  and 
death.' 

'  Don't  be  afraid,  don't  fear ;  everything  has  a  remedy,'  he 
said  vaguely,  trying  to  cut  short  that  despairing  outflow. 


I92  THE  LAND  OF  COCKA  YNE 

( It  can't  be  cured,'  she  said  earnestly.  '  My  dying  mother, 
in  a  lucid  interval,  said  as  she  kissed  me :  "  Don't  judge 
your  father — never  be  hard  on  him ;  obey,  be  obedient. 
The  passion  that  eats  him  up,  and  is  killing  me,  can  only 
increase  with  years.  This  fever  will  get  higher  :  I  have  not 
cured  it,  neither  will  you.  Leave  him  to  this  dream — don't 
annoy  him  ;  if  you  are  unhappy,  ask  God's  help ;  but  respect 
his  years.  He  only  desires  our  happiness — he  is  killing  me 
for  it ;  he  will  make  you  suffer  frightfully,  though  he  is 
noble  and  generous.  Be  merciful  to  him.  It  is  only  so  that 
I  can  die,  as  I  do,  with  a  quiet  conscience."  Mother  was 
right.  With  years  he  has  got  unhappier,  more  eccentric  ; 
he  is  incurable  now ;  he  forgets  everything,  everything — you 
know  what  I  mean.  Some  day  or  other  I  fear  my  noble  old 
father,  whose  gray  hairs  I  ought  to  honour — that  I  want 
everyone  to  respect — may  forget  the  laws  of  honour  in  some 
dark  gambling  combination.' 

'  May  God  keep  him  from  it !'  said  Amati,  starting. 

'  May  God  hear  you  !'  she  cried  out ;  '  but  I  pray  so  much, 
and  the  evil  gets  worse.  If  you  knew  !  We  are  in  want  of 
everything  :  it  is  the  first  time  I  have  told  anyone.  I  am 
quivering  with  shame,  but  I  can't  hide  anything  from  you. 
He  has  sold  everything  :  first  works  of  art,  then  furniture, 
down  to  a  few  jewels  mother  kept  for  me — and  he  adored 
her ! — even  the  Cavalcanti  portraits — though  he  is  proud  of 
his  race  ! — even  the  silver  lamps  in  the  chapel — and  he  is 
religious  !  I  live  with  these  two  old  servants,  so  faithful 
neither  sin  nor  poverty  has  taken  them  from  us !  They  are 
not  paid :  they  serve  us  of  the  House  of  Cavalcanti  without 
pay.  Do  you  know,  it  is  by  their  clever  contrivances  that  the 
house  goes  on,  that  we  have  enough  to  eat,  and  that  there  is 
oil  in  the  lamps !  I  am  raising  for  you  the  veil  of  sacred  family 
decency — don't  betray  us  !'  He  bent  and  kissed  the  hand 
Bianca  held  out  to  him,  to  seal  his  promise.  '  All  that 
money,  and  more  that  he  gets  somewhere — I  know  not  where 
and  have  no  wish  to  know — goes  in  gambling.  Friday  and 
Saturday  he  is  wild.  Other  wretches,  like  that  medium, 
come  for  him :  his  very  name  makes  me  shiver  with  fright 
and  shame ;  they  have  queer  alarming  consultations  ;  they 
get  excited,  shout,  and  quarrel ;  they  use  a  queer  jargon. 
These  are  his  friends  ;  men  of  his  own  rank,  his  relations, 
have  left  him.  It  may  be  he  asked  money  from  them,  got 
it,  and  did  not  give  it  back,  perhaps ;  it  may  be  the  whisper, 


AN  IDYLL  AND  MADNESS  193 

even,  of  wickedness  makes  them  avoid  us.  These  Cabalists, 
men  who  see' — she  shivered  and  looked  round — 'take  his 
money  from  him  and  incite  him  to  play.  The  day  is  at 
hand  when  he  will  have  nothing  left,  and  he  won't  be  able 
to  gamble.  God,  God  open  his  eyes,  if  we  are  not  to  perish 
altogether,  the  name  and  the  family  !' 

'  Bianca,  Bianca,  I  implore  you  to  be  calm,'  he  said, 
alarmed  at  her  excitement,  following  its  phases  with  a 
doctor's  mind  and  a  man's  heart. 

'  I  can't,'  she  cried.  '  I  have  not  told  you  all.  Listen  : 
I  am  a  poor,  weak  creature  ;  the  blood  runs  poor  and  slow 
in  my  veins,  you  know — you  told  me  so.  I  have  lived  either 
in  this  sad  house  or  my  aunt's  convent — that  is  to  say,  with 
my  father,  always  full  of  his  fancies,  or  with  my  aunt,  whose 
faith  gives  her  almost  prophetic  visions.  Mother  died  here  ; 
as  the  gambling  passion  filled  my  father's  mind,  the  delusion 
began  to  filter  into  mine  against  my  will.  Father  speaks 
to  me  of  ghosts,  phantoms,  spirits,  at  all  hours,  especially 
in  the  evening  and  at  night,  and  I  believe  in  them  ;  you  see 
how  frightful  that  is.  The  sunlight,  seeing  people,  chases 
fears  away ;  but  evening  comes,  the  house  gets  full  of 
shadows,  my  blood  freezes  ;  when  father  speaks  of  the  spirit 
my  heart  stops  or  goes  at  a  gallop ;  I  feel  as  if  I  was  dying 
of  fear.  I  get  queer  singings  in  my  ears.  I  hear  light  steps, 
smothered  voices.  I  see  in  my  mind's  eye  white-robed 
figures — they  look  at  me  and  weep  ;  shadowy  hands  smooth 
my  hair.  I  seem  to  feel  icy  breaths  on  my  cheek ;  my 
nights  now  are  one  long  watch,  or  light  sleep  broken  by 
dreams.' 

'  There  are  no  such  spirits,  Bianca,'  said  he,  in  a  gentle, 
firm  voice. 

'  I  am  so  weak,  so  unfit  to  get  rid  of  delusions.  When 
I  have  got  calmer,  father,  from  his  own  fancies  or  the 
medium's  infamous  suggestions,  comes  to  torment  me.  He 
wishes  me  to  see  without  caring  about  my  feebleness,  my 
fears,  not  knowing  how  he  tortures  me.  He  speaks  of  the 
spirit,  wants  me  to  call  it  up,  for  I  am  young  and  innocent. 
I  try  to  go  against  him  ;  vainly  I  struggle  and  ask  him  to 
spare  me,  not  to  make  me  drink  this  bitter  cup.  But  it  is 
no  use  :  he  is  obstinate  and  blinded  ;  he  wants  me  to  see  the 
spirit,  and  ask  what  numbers  to  play.  Father  has  such 
influence  over  me,  he  makes  me  share  his  madness  to  a 
frightful  extent.  I  shall  end  by  being  like  him,  a  poor 

13 


194  THE  LAND  OF  COCKA  YNE 

deluded  thing,  worn  out  by  night  watches  and  daily 
delusions.' 

She  hid  her  face  in  her  hands,  quivering.  The  doctor 
looked  at  her  astounded,  not  daring  to  say  anything. 

'And  you  don't  know  all  yet,'  she  went  on  excitedly. 
'  One  day  you  wrote  me  a  kind,  comforting  letter,  suggest- 
ing I  should  go  off  to  your  mother's.  What  comfort  it  was ! 
I  would  have  got  out  of  this  house  at  last,  where  every 
black  doorway  frightens  me  in  the  evening,  and  the  furniture 
looks  ghostly.  I  would  have  gone  where  there  was  light, 
sun,  heat,  and  joy.  Well,  that  night  father  took  an  extra 
mad  fit :  he  came  to  my  room.  Wakened  from  sleep  at  so 
late  an  hour,  in  the  flickering  lamplight,  his  words  put  me 
into  a  panic  ;  he  wouldn't  listen  to  my  entreaties,  he  didn't 
know  he  was  torturing  me,  and  for  two  hours  he  spoke 
about  the  spirit  that  was  to  appear,  that  I  must  evoke ;  he 
would  teach  me  the  sacred  word.  He  held  on  to  my  hands, 
breathed  in  my  face,  filling  me  with  his  enthusiasm  and 
faith,  and  so  he  gained  his  end.' 

1  In  what  way  ?' 

4  I  saw  the  spirit,  dear.' 

4  How  ?     You  saw  it  ?' 

4  As  I  see  you.' 

4  It  was  fever  ;  there  is  no  such  thing,  Bianca,'  he  said 
harshly,  to  bring  back  her  wandering  mind  to  peace. 

4  You  say  so ;  I  believe  you.  But  when  you  are  gone, 
when  I  have  finished  my  prayers  and  reading,  when  I  am 
alone  in  my  room  with  the  shadows  the  lamps  throw,  I  shall 
see  again  that  night's  vision  :  my  head  will  swim,  my  brain 
whirl,  my  teeth  chatter.  Father  is  in  despair  now  because 
that  night's  numbers  did  not  come  right ;  he  says  I  don't 
know  how  to  interpret ;  he  wants  me  to  call  up  the  spirit 
again.  He  thinks  now  I  am  a  medium,  and  he  gives  me  no 
peace.  I  am  not  his  daughter  now  ;  he  only  looks  on  me 
as  a  mediator  between  him  and  Fortune.  He  watches  every 
word  I  say,  looks  enviously  at  me  or  haughtily,  and  goes 
about  thinking  of  some  queer  discipline,  some  privations  or 
other  to  enable  me  to  see  the  spirit  again,  to  make  my  soul 
pure  like  my  body,  and  my  sight  clear.  He  leaves  me  alone 
at  the  beginning  of  the  week,  but  on  Thursday  night  he 
comes  and  begs  me — fancy,  he  implores  me — to  call  the 
spirit ;  that  aged  man,  whose  hand  I  kiss  respectfully,  kneels 
before  me,  as  at  the  altar,  to  soften  me.  On  Friday  he  gets 


AN  IDYLL  AND  MADNESS  195 

wild  ;  he  never  notices  how  frightened  I  get ;  he  thinks  it  is 
the  coming  of  the  spirits  that  excites  me.  The  other  night, 
to  get  away  from  the  torture  I  find  unbearable,  I  locked  my 
door  :  I  was  so  bold  as  to  deny  father  access  to  my  room. 
Well,  he  came,  knocked,  softly  at  first,  then  loudly ;  he 
spoke  to  me  entreatingly,  he  ordered  me  to  see  the  spirit — in 
a  rage  first,  and  then  abjectly.  I  stopped  my  ears  not  to 
hear  him,  put  my  head  down  in  the  pillows ;  I  bit  the  sheet 
to  choke  my  sobs.  Twenty  times  I  wanted  to  open  the 
door,  but  terror  nailed  me  to  my  bed.  Father  wept. 
Mother,  mother,  I  disobeyed  you  !  You  could  die  for  father, 
but  I  could  not  do  that  for  him.' 

'  Poor  darling !'  he  murmured,  trying  to  calm  her  down 
with  gentle,  compassionate  words,  petting  her  hands,  as  if  he 
wanted  to  set  her  to  sleep  or  magnetize  her. 

'  Yes,  yes,  pity  me,  for  I  am  so  wretched,  so  unhappy,  I 
envy  any  beggar  on  the  street.  Pity  me,  because  the  one 
person  who  should  love  me,  take  care  of  my  health  and 
happiness,  dreams  instead  about  getting  money  for  me,  a 
great  lot,  and  makes  me  suffer  in  body,  in  mind,  for  it ; 
pity  me,  for  I  am  an  unhappy  woman,  doomed  to  a  dark 
ending.  In  all  the  wide  world,  I  only  have  you  to  care 
for  me  !' 

They  said  no  more.  Bianca  Maria's  pallid  cheeks  had 
got  some  colour,  her  eyes  shone  ;  her  whole  heart  had  been 
poured  out  as  she  spoke,  now  she  kept  silence.  She  had 
said  everything.  The  bitter  secret  that  implacably  tortured 
her  whole  existence,  on  being  evoked  by  love,  had  come  out 
and  had  given  a  shudder  of  alarmed  astonishment  to  the 
strong  man  listening.  He  said  nothing,  trying  to  keep  down 
his  own  amazement,  to  arrange  his  confused  ideas.  He  was 
accustomed,  certainly,  to  hear  lugubrious  stories  of  all  kinds 
of  misery,  both  of  body  and  mind,  from  his  patients  ;  he  had 
lifted  the  veil  from  all  kinds  of  shame  and  corruption ;  the 
sorrowful  and  contrite  came  to  him  as  to  a  confessor,  and 
hearts  that  hid  the  most  horrifying  secrets  of  humanity 
opened  to  him.  But  Bianca's  sorrow  was  so  profound,  the 
very  source  of  life  being  attacked,  that  it  frightened  him  to 
see  such  unutterable  wretchedness.  Also  this  girl,  wasted 
by  an  obscure,  unnatural  malady,  tortured  by  her  own  father, 
that  lovely,  dear  creature,  was  the  woman  he  loved,  that  he 
could  not  live  without,  whose  happiness  was  dearer  to  him 
than  his  own.  Disturbed,  not  knowing  yet  how  to  set  to 

13—2 


196  THE  LAND  OF  COCKA  YNE 

work  before  that  complicated  problem  of  sickness  and 
delusion,  that  made  the  Marquis  di  Formosa  the  family 
destroyer,  he  found  nothing  to  say  to  comfort  Bianca. 

She  was  worn  out  now  ;  she  felt  a  vague  remorse  at 
having  accused  her  father.  But  was  not  Amati  to  deliver 
her  ?  Did  she  not  feel  quite  safe,  strong,  when  he  was 
there  ?  Rousing  herself  from  her  exhaustion,  she  raised  her 
eyes  to  his  timidly,  humbly,  saying  : 

'  You  don't  think  me  bad  and  ungrateful,  do  you  ?' 

'  No,  dear,  I  do  not.' 

'  Do  not  judge  badly  of  him.' 

*  I  will  cure  him,'  he  said  thoughtfully. 


CHAPTER  XII 

THE    THREE    SISTERS — CHIARASTELLA   THE    WITCH 

THE  summer  of  that  year  was  a  bad  one  for  the  Neapolitans, 
morally  and  materially.  Above  all,  from  the  end  of  June 
the  summer  scirocco  had  gone  on  dissolving  into  rain ;  storms 
covered  the  bay  with  black  clouds,  lightning  played  behind 
Posillipo,  thunder  rumbled  from  Capodimonte,  sudden  heavy 
summer  showers  raised  a  pungent  smell  of  dust,  and  went 
rushing  down  the  city  roads  from  the  hill  to  the  sea  like 
little  waterspouts,  making  the  passers-by  start  aside  and 
run.  The  poor  cabmen,  with  no  umbrellas,  ragged,  with 
shabby  hats  crushed  down  on  their  heads,  could  do  nothing 
but  stick  their  hands  in  the  pockets  of  their  worn-out 
jackets  and  keep  their  heads  down.  It  was  a  devilish 
summer,  a  real  correction  from  God ;  that  was  why  San 
Gennaro  had  been  so  long  in  working  the  miracle  that  year. 
He  makes  no  mistakes. 

The  rushing  scirocco  lashed  up  the  waves  in  the  bay 
furiously  ;  they  got  livid  with  rage,  and  foamed  under  the 
chill  curtain  of  clouds,  and  all  the  bathing-places  from 
Marinella  to  Posillipo  had  to  take  up  the  boards  of  their 
wooden  huts  to  let  the  raging  sea  pass  through,  or  they 
would  have  been  broken  to  pieces.  There  lay  the  great 
irrecoverable  loss,  for  the  long  files  of  provincial  people  that 
come  from  Calabria,  Basilicata,  Abruzzi,  and  Molise,  to  take 
sea-baths,  and  fill  up  the  inns  and  second-class  eating- 
houses,  who  sit  four  in  a  carriage  that  barely  holds  two — 
these  country  people,  who  are  Naples'  summer  source  of 
revenue,  being  afraid  of  the  bad  weather,  always  went  on 
intending  to  start  for  Naples  the  next  week,  and  ended  by 
never  leaving  their  villages  at  all.  Those  who  had  arrived 
the  first  week  in  July,  intending  to  stay  till  the  end  of 
August,  on  finding  they  could  only  have  a  bathe  on  one 
day  out  of  five,  and  then  have  to  face  a  stormy  sea,  got 


198  THE  LAND  OF  COCKA  YNE 

frightened  and  discouraged,  and  ended  by  going  back  to 
Campobasso,  to  Avellino,  Benevento,  and  Potenza,  to  the 
great  sorrow  of  the  girls  and  young  fellows.  It  was  a  lost 
season. 

At  the  Fieri  Inn,  in  Fiorentini  Square,  the  Campidoglio, 
in  Municipio  Square,  and  the  Centrale,  at  Fontana  Medina, 
there  was  a  void  ;  as  for  the  A  llegria,  in  Carita  Square,  one 
of  the  greatest  resorts  of  country  people,  it  was  a  desert. 

Very  warm  days  came  at  times  between  the  stormy  ones, 
which  were  very  exhausting.  It  was  a  real  African  climate, 
and  the  bathing-places  —  De  Crescenzio,  Cannavacciuolo, 
Sciattone,  Manetta  and  Pappalordo — had  five  days'  empti- 
ness to  one  day  of  too  large  a  crowd  of  people.  The  owners 
shook  their  heads  despondingly,  whilst  the  bronzed,  thin, 
black-toothed,  hoarse-voiced  bathing-women,  shoeless,  in 
shift,  petticoat  and  straw  hats,  ran  after  sheets  of  doubtful 
whiteness  on  the  dirty  brown  sands,  where  the  wind  caught 
them  and  threatened  to  cast  them  into  the  sea.  What  rain  ! 
what  rain  !  The  eating-houses  in  the  centre  of  Naples  had 
poor  business,  but  those  who  put  tables  out  in  the  open  air 
on  Santa  Lucia  causeway,  the  eating-houses  that  go  from 
Mergellina  to  Posillipo,  the  Bersaglio,  the  Schiava,  the 
Figlio  di  Pietro,  all  those  whose  slender  existence  depends 
on  fine  weather,  summer  and  winter,  these  suffered  most ; 
no  one  had  anything  to  do,  from  the  cook  yawning  in  the 
kitchen  to  the  few  waiters  left,  who  sat  sleepily  in  the 
steamy  atmosphere  that  even  the  storms  did  not  freshen  up. 
Only  crawling  flies  buzzed  on  the  uselessly  prepared  tables. 
There  was  a  general  idleness ;  a  chorus  of  oaths  and  lamen- 
tations arose  at  every  new  outburst  of  showers.  Even  the 
evenings  at  the  Villa,  round  the  bandstand,  where  the 
municipal  band  plays  its  old  polkas  and  variations  on 
'  Forza  del  Destine '  of  ancient  date,  where  a  penny  for  a 
seat  is  all  that  is  needed  to  be  able  to  enjoy  the  pleasant 
sight  of  a  middle-class  crowd,  seated  or  wandering  round 
the  band,  just  a  penny  to  sit  in  the  open  air  and  hear  the 
modest  concert — even  these  simple,  economical,  popular 
evenings  were  spoilt.  Among  the  tradesmen's  daughters, 
for  whom  the  Villa  means  an  occasion  to  show  their  humble 
white  frocks,  sewn  and  starched  at  home,  to  see  their  lovers, 
even  at  a  distance,  under  the  flickering  gas-lamps,  to  go  a 
step  further  on  the  road,  often  a  long  one,  that  leads  to 
marriage — among  these  girls  there  was  secret  weeping. 


THE  THREE  SISTERS— CHI ARASTELLA          199 

The  chair  -  hirer  wandered  through  the  deserted,  damp 
avenues,  full  of  snails,  to  see  if  no  one  would  come  to  brave 
the  bad  weather,  or,  driven  desperate,  he  settled  himself  in 
a  corner  of  Vacca  Cafe  to  talk  over  his  woes  with  one  of  the 
waiters.  What  a  season  ! 

Don  Domenico  Mayer's  son  and  daughter,  who  in  other 
years  went  every  evening  to  the  Villa,  walking  there  and 
back,  so  as  to  spend  only  fourpence,  this  year  nearly  expired 
with  heat  and  boredom  in  their  Rossi  Palazzo  flat.  Their 
father  was  so  stern.  Their  mother  was  even  more  sickly  and 
doleful  than  usual.  It  was  a  bad  season  for  the  three  sisters 
scattered  in  different  parts  of  Naples — Carmela,  the  cigar- 
maker  ;  Annarella,  the  servant ;  and  Filomena,  the  young 
girl  who  lived  in  sin.  Above  all,  their  mother  was  dead  in 
the  cellar  where  she  had  lived  with  Carmela,  and  in  spite 
of  having  got  a  pauper's  coffin  for  her  from  the  Pendino 
district  authorities,  and  her  being  thrown  into  the  common 
pit  on  the  great  heap  of  the  wretched  at  Poggio  Reale,  Car- 
mela still  had  had  to  pay  seventy  or  eighty  francs  for  burial 
expenses,  without  even  having  the  consolation  of  knowing 
that  her  mother  had  had  a  separate  grave.  For  some  time 
Carmela  had  paid  a  small  weekly  sum  to  a  pious  Congre- 
gazione  so  as  to  have  at  her  own  death,  or  any  of  her  family's, 
a  separate  carriage  following  and  a  grave ;  but  debts  and 
wretchedness,  gambling  resorted  to  in  desperation,  had 
prevented  her  from  going  on  paying  the  fees,  and  she  had 
lost  her  claim.  She  was  left  alone,  with  no  mother,  in  that 
damp,  dark  cellar,  in  debt  up  to  the  eyes,  not  having  twelve 
francs  even  to  get  a  black  dress  or  any  mourning ;  she  wore 
a  light-coloured  cotton  with  a  black  kerchief  at  her  neck, 
and  her  neighbours  criticised  her  for  her  heartlessness. 
Her  everlasting  lover,  Raffaele,  had  now  risen  to  the  highest 
grades  of  the  Camorrist  hierarchy  from  having  taken  part  in 
two  duels,  or  dichiaramenti,  and  from  having  a  mark  against 
him  with  the  police ;  he  had  got  still  more  haughty  to  her, 
especially  after  her  mother's  death ;  he  fled  from  Carmela, 
and  when  she  went  after  him  at  inn  doors  and  suburban 
taverns,  he  treated  her  brutally,  all  the  more  that  she  had 
got  into  a  wretched  condition  ;  she  could  not  give  him  five 
francs  ever  now,  or  even  the  two  francs  he  haughtily  asked 
for  and  she  humbly  gave. 

A  subtle  suspicion  was  growing  in  the  girl's  mind,  and 
from  her  mother's  death,  her  excessive  poverty,  and 


200  THE  LAND  OF  COCK  A  YNE 

Raffaele's  suspected  false-dealing,  she  lost  her  head.  She 
often  failed  to  go  to  the  tobacco  factory,  and  lost  her  day's 
work,  or  worked  so  absent-mindedly,  so  badly,  she  was  fined 
and  got  very  little  on  Saturday.  Often  during  the  week  she 
broke  her  fast  with  a  pennyworth  of  dry  bread  dipped  in 
macaroni-water,  that  a  neighbour,  not  so  poor  as  herself, 
treated  her  to.  It  was  too  hard,  too  hard,  for  one  who  only 
wished  for  others'  happiness,  to  see  her  mother  die  of  priva- 
tion, and  then  thrown  into  a  common  paupers'  ditch,  to 
mingle  her  bones  with  theirs ;  to  see  her  lover  going  down 
gradually  the  whole  ladder  of  vice,  even  to  prison,  perhaps 
to  capital  crime ;  and  also  to  see  her  sisters  fading  away  for 
want  of  moral  and  physical  comfort.  Now,  with  her  mother 
gone  to  her  eternal  rest — how  Carmela  envied  her  sometimes ! 
— and  with  Raffaele  always  going  farther  off  from  her,  she, 
feeling  her  heart  as  cold  as  her  stomach,  went  oftener  to  see 
her  sisters.  She  thought  of  going  to  live  with  Annarella,  for 
economy's  sake,  and  not  to  live  in  such  a  lonely  way ;  but 
Annarella  lived  in  a  cellar  in  Rosariella  di  Porta  Medina — 
she,  her  husband,  and  two  children,  already  getting  of  a 
good  size — in  a  cellar  with  a  beaten  earth  floor  and  walls  not 
whitewashed  for  years.  The  husband  and  wife  slept  on  a 
bed  made  of  two  iron  trestles,  with  three  squeaking  boards 
laid  over  them  lengthwise,  and  a  big  mattress  stuffed  with 
maize  leaves — the  paglione,  which  has  an  opening  in  the 
middle  to  put  in  the  hand  when  the  bed  is  made.  The  girl 
slept  by  the  mother  in  the  big  conjugal  bed,  and  they  made 
up  a  little  bed  for  the  boy  every  evening  upon  two  broken 
chairs. 

Frightful,  utter  misery  had  gradually  fallen  on  the  glove- 
cutter's  family.  He  not  only  staked  his  whole  week's  pay 
on  the  lottery,  but  on  Friday  evening  and  Saturday  morning 
he  beat  his  wife,  enraged  if  she  had  only  one  or  two  francs 
to  give  him.  Now  the  children  were  beginning  to  earn 
something.  The  girl  worked  at  a  dressmaker's,  the  boy  as  a 
stable-hand ;  and  when  he  could  not  get  anything  from  his 
wife,  Gaetano  went  to  the  dressmaker's  where  his  little  girl 
worked  by  the  week,  called  her  down,  and,  by  dint  of  lies, 
wheedling,  or  blows,  one  after  the  other,  he  managed  always 
to  draw  some  pence  from  the  child,  who  got  the  dressmaker 
to  advance  them  on  her  week's  pay.  With  his  son,  now  a 
boy  of  twelve,  Gaetano  behaved  still  worse.  The  stable-boy 
often  refused  him  money,  taunting  him  with  his  vice  and  the 


THE  THREE  SISTERS— CHIARASTELLA          201 

wretchedness  he  had  reduced  his  mother  to.  The  father 
rained  down  blows  on  him.  The  boy,  choking  with  tears, 
shouted,  swore,  and  struggled.  People  came  up  to  hear  a 
son  call  his  father  a  scoundrel,  an  assassin.  Once,  when  his 
father  gave  him  a  blow  on  the  nose,  making  the  blood  flow, 
he  got  enraged  and  bit  his  hand.  On  Saturday  evening, 
when  they  came  back  to  their  home,  the  children  carried  the 
marks  of  their  father's  blows.  The  mother,  who  had  for- 
gotten the  blows  she  got  herself,  found  the  marks,  and  wept 
over  her  poor  children,  asking  them  : 

'  How  much  has  he  taken  away  from  you  ?' 

'  Fourteen  sous,'  Teresina  answered  sadly. 

'  He  took  half  a  franc  from  me,'  said  Carmine,  raging. 

'  Merciful  God  !'  the  mother  cried  out,  weeping. 

But  what  she  could  not  get  out  of  her  mind  was  her  two- 
and-a-half-year-old  baby,  which  died  from  bad  milk,  bad 
nourishment,  from  languishing  in  that  black  cellar,  which 
dripped  from  damp  summer  and  winter.  If  Peppino  was 
named  by  chance,  she  grew  pale,  and  nothing  could  get  it 
out  of  her  head  that  her  husband's  vice  had  killed  her  little 
son.  She  had  religiously  kept  the  big  swinging  basket  that 
poor  Naples  children  are  cradled  in  (the  sportone] ;  but  she 
first  sold  the  pillow,  then  the  little  maize  mattress,  and  one 
day  of  great  hunger,  not  knowing  where  to  get  a  halfpenny, 
she  sold  the  cradle.  Parting  from  it  was  so  agonizing  that 
the  mother  sat  on  the  doorstep,  not  caring  who  passed,  and 
wept  for  an  hour,  with  her  head  in  her  apron.  '  You  know, 
Peppino — you  know !'  she  whispered,  as  if  she  was  asking 
pardon  of  the  tiny  dead  for  having  sold  his  cradle. 

Now  that  summer  had  come  in  so  unsettled  and  stormy, 
it  had  made  the  family  position  worse  than  ever.  Of  the 
two  half-days'  service  she  did,  she  had  lost  one,  which  meant 
ten  francs.  It  was  the  lodging-house  keeper:  as  she  had 
empty  rooms,  she  dismissed  her  servant.  The  girl  Teresina 
had  had  her  weekly  pay  reduced,  as  the  dressmaker  had  no 
work ;  but,  not  wishing  to  dismiss  the  girl  straight  off,  she  let 
her  do  the  house-work  out  of  charity.  The  coachman  that 
Carmine  was  stable-boy  to  went  off  with  his  master's  family 
to  the  country  for  four  months,  and  would  have  taken  the 
boy  with  him ;  but  Gaetano,  the  lad's  father,  knowing  he 
could  always  get  some  pence  out  of  the  boy  if  he  stayed  in 
Naples,  by  threats,  arguments,  or  blows,  prevented  him  from 
going  to  the  country.  He  ordered  him  to  look  out  for 


202  THE  LAND  OF  COCKAYNE 

another  service  in  Naples.  Carmine  shrieked,  wept,  cursed, 
threatening  to  go  away  secretly. 

'  I  am  going  away,  mother  ;  I  am  going  off  secretly,  and 
father  won't  see  a  farthing  of  my  money,  you  know.  I  will 
send  it  to  you  in  a  letter  ;  father  is  not  to  have  any  of  it.' 

'  What  can  I  say,  darling  ?  You  are  right  to  go,'  his 
mother  lamented.  And  that  going  away  of  her  son  tore  her 
heart  also. 

But  the  debts  they  had  with  Donna  Concetta,  the  usurer, 
were  Carmela's  greatest  agony,  also  Annarella's  and  Gae- 
tano's.  Even  she  had  suffered  from  the  bad  season,  as  the 
debtors  almost  all  failed  to  pay,  and  had  not  even  money 
to  pay  the  interest  with  by  the  week.  She  did  not  lend  a 
farthing  more  to  anyone  ;  she  was  embittered  and  fierce,  for 
even  she  was  feeling  the  pinch  of  other  people's  wretched- 
ness. She  shut  herself  up  in  the  house  at  night  behind  iron 
bars,  for  she  had  pension  papers  and  savings-bank  books  in 
the  house ;  and  that  put  her  in  a  state  of  constant  fury. 
She  wandered  about  all  day  from  one  street  to  another,  from 
cellar  to  attic,  from  shop  to  factory,  running  after  her  own 
money,  till  she  was  out  of  breath  ;  for  she  always  went  on 
foot.  Devoured  with  rage  from  the  constant  refusals,  she 
began  by  asking  for  her  interest  at  least,  coldly  insistent, 
and  ended  up  by  making  a  scene,  yelling,  demanding  her 
'  blood,'  as  she  passionately  called  her  money.  But  those  who 
most  enraged  her  were  Gaetano,  Annarella  and  Carmela. 
Between  them  they  had  got  about  two  hundred  francs  from 
her,  and  she  could  not  get  even  a  centime  of  the  weekly  ten 
francs'  interest.  Oh,  these  three  !  these  three  !  She  went 
to  the  Bossi  factory  at  Foria,  where  Gaetano  cut  out  gloves, 
and  had  the  workman  called  down  sometimes  ;  but,  warned 
by  a  companion,  he  got  them  to  say  he  was  not  at  the  factory 
that  day.  But  she  persisted,  being  suspicious  and  un- 
believing; she  walked  about  in  front  of  the  door,  and  he  ended 
by  going  down  to  her,  a  black  cigar  ever  in  his  mouth. 

The  scene  began  in  a  whisper,  short,  energetic,  violent : 
sometimes  Gaetano,  grinning — for  the  lottery  made  him 
lose  all  sense  of  shame — repeated  to  her  the  motto  of  Naples' 
bad  payers :  '  If  I  had  it  and  could,  I  would  pay  ;  but  not 
having  it,  I  can't  and  won't  pay.'  But  she  set  to  yelling, 
said  she  would  go  to  Carlo  Bossi  to  complain,  or  to  the 
judge  ;  and  Gaetano,  in  a  rage,  but  controlling  himself, 
made  answer,  What  would  she  gain  by  getting  him  turned 


THE  THREE  SISTERS— CHI ARASTELLA          203 

out  of  the  factory  ?  She  would  not  get  another  farthing 
then.  The  judge  ?  What  could  he  do  ?  The  prison  for 
debtors  no  longer  exists  in  Naples ;  the  Concordia  prison 
has  been  abolished  by  gentlemen  who  could  not  pay  their 
big  debts.  Then  she  got  in  a  rage  like  a  witch  ;  the  whole 
neighbourhood  came  out  to  the  doors  and  balconies.  He 
listened,  very  pale,  biting  at  his  black  cigar-stump.  One 
day  he  threatened  in  a  whisper  to  cut  her  in  pieces. 
Muttering  vague,  threatening  words,  pulling  her  shawl  round 
her  angrily,  Donna  Concetta  went  off  with  the  swinging 
step  of  rich,  lazy  women  of  the  lower  class,  her  head  a  little 
to  one  side,  her  face  still  discomposed  after  the  scene. 

Since  she  happened  to  be  at  Foria,  and  the  cigar-makers' 
work  ended  at  four  o'clock,  she  went  to  stand  at  the  door  of 
the  factory  in  Santi  Apostoli  Square,  waiting  till  Carmela 
came  out,  to  ask  her  for  her  money.  She  was  not  the  only 
one  that  was  waiting  ;  other  women  were  at  the  door  who 
had  lent  money  or  clothes  to  the  workers  at  high  interest ; 
and  they  knew  and  recognised  each  other,  feeling  they  had 
a  strong,  mutual  interest  in  the  laws  of  usury  ;  they  made  a 
long  lament  together  over  the  tardiness  in  paying  and  in- 
exactness of  their  clients.  They  all  said  they  were  ruined  by 
the  bad  season  and  the  ill-will  of  their  debtors ;  the  words 
1  my  blood,  our  blood  '  came  up  always  like  a  wail,  as  they  spoke 
of  the  money  lost.  It  was  not  allowable  to  send  up  for  any 
workgirl,  but  the  money-lenders  waited,  like  the  cake  and 
fruit  sellers,  till  the  workpeople  came  out.  The  poor  women 
who  were  coming  from  the  factory,  with  sickly  faces  from 
the  bad  tobacco  fumes,  their  hands  stained  up  to  the  wrist, 
stopped  to  buy  something  to  carry  home  to  feed  their  families 
on,  after  their  day's  work.  The  money-lenders  mingled 
with  pot-herb-sellers,  and  vendors  of  parsnips  in  vinegar 
and  pancakes,  and  waited  patiently,  pulling  their  shawls  up 
on  their  shoulders — that  common  trick.  At  last  the  women, 
after  being  searched,  one  by  one,  by  an  overseer  to  find  out 
if  they  had  stolen  any  tobacco,  came  out.  Some  slipped 
away,  others  stopped  to  buy  broccoli,  radishes,  potatoes,  or 
some  pancake  ;  but  the  palest  certainly  were  those  who  were 
caught  outside  by  their  creditors.  The  palest  of  all,  and  not 
from  tobacco  fumes,  but  shame,  was  Carmela.  She  tried  to 
lead  off  Donna  Concetta  towards  Vertecceli  Street  or  Santi 
Apostoli  steps,  so  as  not  to  let  her  friends  hear  what  was 
said  ;  but  Donna  Concetta  went  slowly  and  raised  her  voice. 


204  THE  LAND  OF  COCKA  YNE 

She  wanted  her  money,  her  blood  ;  it  was  a  shame  not  to 
give  it  to  her  ;  she  would  have  the  interest,  at  any  rate.  If 
Carmela  had  any  shame,  she  must  at  least  give  her  the 
interest.  The  cigar-girl's  eyes  filled  with  tears  at  that 
abuse,  and,  having  a  few  pence  in  her  purse,  it  was  impos- 
sible to  hold  out.  She  handed  them  to  Donna  Concetta  ; 
but  it  was  so  little  always  that,  although  she  sacrificed  her 
day's  meal,  it  only  got  her  the  more  abuse.  She  listened, 
with  her  head  bent,  to  Donna  Concetta's  taunts  up  Arci- 
vescovato  Street  and  Gerolomini  Road ;  after  a  time  Donna 
Concetta  recognised  that  the  girl  had  no  more  money,  and 
that  it  was  useless  to  worry  her. 

But  Carmela,  even  when  Donna  Concetta  had  gone  off, 
felt  the  shiver  of  shame  that  bitter  voice  had  sent  through 
her,  saying  such  offensive  words  ;  and  tired,  crushed,  with- 
out a  farthing  in  her  pocket  after  working  a  whole  day,  she 
again  felt  envy  of  her  dead  mother.  Of  course,  she,  too, 
had  that  vice  of  gambling,  but  it  was  for  good  ends — to  give 
money  to  everyone,  to  make  all  her  friends  happy,  if  she 
won,  to  let  Raffaele,  or  Farfariello,  as  he  was  called,  draw 
money  from  her  ;  but  to  be  so  severely  punished  for  this 
venial  sin  cut  her  to  the  heart.  Ah  !  on  some  days  how 
willingly  she  would  have  thrown  herself  into  the  well  of  the 
building  where  the  factory  was,  so  as  not  to  hear  or  feel 
anything  more  !  But  Donna  Concetta's  thirst  was  not  at  all 
quenched  by  that  drop  of  water,  Carmela's  pence,  and  on 
her  way  home  every  evening,  before  going  in  at  her  door,  she 
hurried  to  the  Rosariella  Street  cellar  where  Annarella  lived. 
She  was  generally  seated  near  the  bed,  and  often  in  the 
dark,  for  she  had  nothing  to  buy  oil  with,  saying  the  Rosary 
with  her  daughter.  Donna  Concetta  crossed  herself  and 
waited  till  the  Rosary  was  ended,  to  ask  for  her  loan  back, 
uselessly  as  it  happened  every  day.  Annarella  could  do 
nothing  now  but  answer  with  a  sigh  or  lament,  and  when 
Donna  Concetta  burst  into  eloquence  she  began  to  cry. 
Then  Teresina  broke  in,  speaking  to  both  women. 

'  Don't  cry,  mother,  to  please  me.'  And  to  the  money- 
lender :  '  Do  you  not  see,  Donna  Concetta,  that  mother  has 
not  got  any  money  ?' 

'Dear  girl,  my  darling!'  sobbed  her  mother,  choked  by 
all  the  sorrows  of  her  life. 

The  money-lender  would  not  be  appeased  ;  she  was  so 
accustomed  to  the  sham  tears  of  those  who  wished  to  cheat 


THE  THREE  SISTERS— Off IARASTELLA          205 

her  of  her  money  that  she  no  longer  believed  in  any  sorrow  ; 
it  was  only  when  she  had  exhausted  her  whole  vocabulary 
of  abuse  that  she  decided  to  go  away,  slowly,  with  that  sleek 
walk  of  hers,  muttering  that  she  would  do  justice  with  her 
own  hands,  against  robbers  of  her  blood.  The  mother  and 
daughter  were  left  alone  in  the  damp,  dark  cellar's  unhealthy 
heat,  and  the  poor  charwoman,  responding  to  an  inward 
thought,  exclaimed  : 

'  Soul  of  Peppinello,  do  me  this  grace  !' 

When  Carmela  and  Annarella  afterwards  met  in  the  street 
or  the  Rosariella  cellar,  there  was  a  long  outpouring  of 
sorrows  and  interchange  of  news,  when  the  physical  and 
moral  bitterness  of  their  sad  existences  burst  out. 

'  That  lottery  !  what  bad  luck,  what  infamous  luck,  it 
was,  for  it  never  to  give  a  farthing's  winnings,  and  to  take 
their  all — even  the  bit  of  bread  that  just  kept  them  alive  !' 
Sometimes,  through  speaking  about  their  wretchedness  and 
solitariness,  Filomena,  the  third  unfortunate  sister,  was 
referred  to.  '  What  was  she  doing  ?  How  could  she  bear 
that  life  of  sin?' 

Carmela  had  twice  gone  to  seek  her  in  the  alley  behind 
Santa  Barbara  Steps :  once  she  was  out ;  the  other  time  she 
found  her  so  cold,  so  changed,  as  if  struck  by  remorse,  that 
Carmela,  filled  with  emotion,  ran  away  at  once.  Another 
time  Annarella  had  met  Filomena  in  the  street,  in  blue 
and  yellow,  with  the  usual  red  ribbon  at  her  neck  ;  she  asked 
her  why  she  wore  no  mourning  for  her  mother. 

'  I  am  not  worthy,'  Filomena  had  answered,  casting  down 
her  eyes,  and  going  off  with  that  sliding  step  on  high-heeled, 
shiny  shoes.  All  through  this  Carmela  felt,  besides  her  open 
griefs,  besides  the  sequence  of  wretchedness  and  humiliation, 
something  she  could  not  take  hold  of,  as  if  a  new  misfortune 
was  coming  on  her  head,  a  crowning  fatality  was  hemming 
her  in,  with  no  way  of  escape.  What  was  it  ?  She  could 
not  say  what  it  was.  Perhaps  it  was  Raffaele's  increasing 
coldness,  and  the  brutal  way  he  treated  her  when  they  met ; 
it  may  have  been  her  brother-in-law  Gaetano's  fierce  ex- 
pression, or  that  queer  look  that  Filomena  gave  her :  she 
dared  not  go  to  ask  for  her  now. 

For  some  time  Annarella  and  she  had  been  making  up  a 
plan  to  put  an  end  to  their  difficulties.  Among  all  Naples 
common  folk  there  are  women  famed  as  witches — fattucchiare, 
as  they  call  them — whose  witchcraft,  philtres  and  charms 


206  THE  LAND  OF  COCK  A  YNE 

cannot  be  resisted.  Some,  indeed,  have  a  large  practice, 
much  larger  than  a  doctor's  would  be  in  the  same  neighbour- 
hood ;  almost  every  quarter  boasts  of  its  witch,  who  can 
do  the  most  extraordinary  miracles,  always,  however,  by 
God's  help  and  the  Virgin's.  Well,  Chiarastella,  the  great 
sorceress,  who  lived  up  there  at  Centograde  Lane,  near  the 
Corso  Vittorio  Emanuele,  had  a  tremendous  reputation : 
there  was  not  a  shop,  cellar,  road,  square,  or  street  corner 
where  Chiarastella's  marvellous  deeds  were  not  known  and 
spoken  of.  It  was  said  everywhere  that,  to  get  Chiarastella's 
spells,  you  must  ask  for  things  that  were  not  against  God's 
will ;  but  no  one  who  attended  to  this  rule  had  come  home 
disappointed  from  her  little  place  in  Centograde  Lane.  No 
one  among  the  mass  of  Naples  common  folk  dared  to  throw 
a  doubt  on  Chiarastella's  magic  powers.  If  in  the  provision 
stores  and  macaroni  shops,  where  young  and  old  women  love 
to  gossip,  or  in  front  of  herb-sellers'  baskets  and  barrows, 
where  small  folk  haggle  for  three-quarters  of  an  hour  over 
a  bundle  of  borage,  and  at  basement  doors,  where  such  long, 
animated  talk  goes  on ;  any  ignorant  woman,  on  hearing  of 
the  Centograde  witch's  miracles,  raised  her  eyebrows  in 
surprise  and  unbelief,  twenty  anxious,  excited  voices  told 
her  of  all  the  deeds  done  by  Chiarastella.  In  one  place  a 
traitor  husband  had  been  brought  back  to  his  young  wife ; 
then  a  young  fellow  dying  of  consumption  was  cured  when 
the  doctors  had  given  him  up.  Another  case  was  a  dress- 
maker who  had  lost  her  customers,  and  had  got  them  all 
back  gradually  by  the  witch's  influence ;  then  there  was  a 
heartless  girl  who  drove  her  lover  to  an  evil  life  and  crime 
by  her  coldness,  and  Chiarastella  had  set  things  right. 
Above  all  there  was  the  tying  of  the  tongue :  that — that  was 
Chiarastella's  grand  feat.  Everyone  who  had  a  lawsuit 
coming  off,  or  a  trial  in  which  they  might  be  overcome  by 
their  adversary  or  by  justice,  where  money,  honour,  liberty 
or  life  would  be  at  stake,  rushed  in  desperation  for  Chiara- 
stella's magic.  After  hearing  about  the  case,  if  she  considered 
it  moral  and  in  accordance  with  God's  will,  she  promised  to 
tie  the  tongue  of  the  adversary's  lawyer.  The  spell  consisted 
of  a  magic  cord  with  three  knots  in  it  to  represent  the 
number  of  persons  in  the  Trinity.  Means  must  be  found 
to  put  it  on  the  advocate's  person,  either  in  his  pocket  or 
in  the  lining  of  his  clothes,  on  the  decisive  morning  of  the 
trial,  and  by  the  help  of  prayer  the  rival's  advocate  would 


THE  THREE  SISTERS— CHIARASTELLA          207 

not  be  able  to  say  over  any  of  his  arguments,  even  if  he  had 
them  in  his  mind — his  tongue  was  tied,  the  suit  was  lost  to 
him,  the  spell  had  secured  its  object.  Examples  were  quoted 
where  the  innocent  and  oppressed,  suffering  from  man's 
injustice,  had  been  thus  saved  by  Chiarastella.  Carmela 
and  Annarella  had  thought  of  applying  to  Chiarastella  for 
some  time,  Carmela  to  try  and  awaken  in  Raffaele's  heart 
renewed  love  for  her,  she  never  having  had  his  love,  and 
now  it  was  less  hers  than  ever.  Annarella  required  a  spell 
to  get  her  husband  Gaetano  to  give  up  gambling  at  the 
lottery. 

Carmela  had  been  up  already  at  Centograde  Lane  to 
make  inquiries  about  getting  the  magic ;  she  found  five 
francs  were  necessary ;  and,  besides,  there  were  some  small 
ingredients  that  had  to  be  bought.  Afterwards,  if  it  was 
successful,  just  as  God  willed  it,  the  two  sisters  would  make 
the  witch  a  good  present.  Chiarastella  certainly  never 
promised  anything ;  she  spoke  mysteriously,  in  a  doubt- 
ful way,  and  kept  deep  silence  at  certain  questions.  It 
seemed  as  if  she  did  not  care  about  money ;  she  contented 
herself  with  a  small  fee  for  her  support,  counting  on  people's 
gratitude  to  get  a  better  gift  if  it  was  God's  will  that  the 
thing  turned  out  well  later  on.  Meanwhile,  ten  francs  at 
least  were  needed ;  without  them  nothing  whatever  could 
be  done.  Whatever  privations  the  sisters  might  endure 
that  bad  summer,  they  never  would  have  been  able  to  put 
aside  ten  francs  between  them. 

But  days  went  by,  and  moral  wretchedness  was  as  urgent 
of  care  as  their  bodily  wants  required  looking  to :  it  was 
the  only  remedy  left,  so,  though  much  against  the  grain, 
Carmela  made  up  her  mind  to  sell  her  old  marble-topped 
chest  of  drawers,  the  chief  bit  of  furniture  in  her  room,  that 
had  been  bought  by  her  mother  as  a  bride.  She  barely  got 
twelve  francs  for  it — everyone  was  selling  furniture  that 
hateful  summer  ;  there  was  not  a  dog  left  that  would  buy  a 
farthing's  worth  of  things.  She  put  her  few  pieces  of  linen 
in  a  covered  basket  under  her  bed,  and  hung  her  poor  clothes 
on  a  bit  of  string  from  two  nails  in  the  wall,  where  they  got 
damp,  but  she  had  her  twelve  francs. 

It  was  one  Sunday  at  the  end  of  August,  after  hearing 
Mass  in  Sette  Dolori  Church,  that  the  sisters  went  towards 
Centograde  Lane.  Carmela  had  shut  up  her  home  and 
carried  the  key  in  her  pocket.  Annarella  left  her  daughter 


2o8  THE  LAND  OF  COCK  A  YNE 

Teresina  at  home  mending  a  torn  dress,  after  working  till 
mid-day  at  the  dressmaker's.  For  eight  days  now  Carmela 
had  not  succeeded  in  finding  Raffaele,  though  she  wandered 
through  Naples  in  her  free  hours.  Gaetano,  Annarella's 
husband,  had  not  come  home  on  Saturday  night,  nor  that 
morning.  In  Sette  Dolori  Church,  kneeling  at  a  dark  wooden 
form  that  the  poor  must  use,  as  they  cannot  pay  for  seats, 
they  prayed  earnestly  during  Mass.  Now  they  were  labori- 
ously going  up  the  steps  of  the  steep  incline  that  leads  from 
Sette  Dolori  Street  to  Vittorio  Emanuele  Corso,  not  speak- 
ing, wrapt  up  in  vague  hopes  and  fears.  Chiarastella,  the 
witch,  lived  appropriately  in  a  dark  alley.  It  was  quiet, 
but  well  enough  lighted,  and  stood  to  the  right  of  the  steep 
steps  that  lead  from  the  principal  street  up  the  hill  to  the 
little  outlets  Pignasecca,  Carita,  and  Monte  Santo.  There 
was  a  great  quietness  in  that  blind  alley,  but  the  damp 
summer  scirocco  had  covered  the  flint  pavement  with  a  thin 
coating  of  mud,  so  they  had  to  walk  carefully  not  to  fall, 
and  they  made  no  noise. 

'Does  she  expect  us?'  Annarella  asked,  hardly  moving 
her  lips.  She  was  panting  after  going  up  the  steps. 

'  Yes,  she  does,'  said  Carmela  in  a  whisper,  as  she  went 
in  at  the  door. 

They  went  up  to  the  first-floor,  on  to  the  narrow  landing. 
There  were  twro  doors  facing  each  other  ;  one  was  shut  fast ; 
indeed,  it  was  fastened  by  a  chain  and  a  heavy  iron  pad- 
lock. It  looked  as  if  the  dwellers  there  had  gone  off  after  a 
misfortune,  shutting  up  their  dull  abode  for  ever.  The  door 
on  the  left  was  half  open ;  but  the  sisters,  on  hearing  a 
muffled  sob,  dared  not  go  in  without  knocking.  It  was 
startling  for  Carmela  to  pull  a  brown  monkey's  paw  joined 
to  a  big-ringed  iron  chain  the  bell  inside  was  hung  to.  The 
black,  mummified  paw  gave  one  a  shudder  ;  it  was  hairy 
above  and  pink  underneath.  It  seemed  like  finding  a  bit 
of  a  swarthy  murdered  child.  The  bell  tinkled  long  and 
shrilly,  as  if  it  would  never  give  over.  A  very  old,  decrepit, 
bent  servant,  with  a  pointed  nose  that  seemed  to  wish  to  go 
into  her  toothless  mouth,  appeared.  She  signed  to  the  two 
women  to  come  into  the  bare,  narrow  lobby,  which  was 
rather  damp  underfoot.  The  choked  sobbing  went  on 
behind  another  closed  door.  Soon  after  the  door  opened, 
and  a  girl  of  the  people,  a  seamstress  (Antonietta  the  blonde 
it  was),  crossed  the  lobby,  her  shawl  off  her  shoulders, 


THE  THREE  SISTERS— CHIARASTELLA          209 

weeping,  her  handkerchief  at  her  eyes.  Nannina,  her  short 
friend,  kept  one  arm  round  her  waist,  as  if  she  wanted  to 
hold  her  up,  and  went  on  repeating,  to  console  her  : 

'  It  does  not  matter  ;  never  mind  about  it.' 

But  on  the  sobbing  getting  louder  the  old  woman  opened 
the  outer  door  and  sent  the  girls  off,  almost  pushing  them 
out ;  then  she  disappeared  without  saying  a  word  to  Anna- 
rella  or  Carmela.  They,  already  moved  by  the  feelings 
that  induced  them  to  invoke  the  witch's  power,  were  very 
sympathetic  with  the  two  girls,  one  so  inconsolable,  the 
other  so  vainly  trying  to  soothe.  Leaning  at  the  lobby 
window,  they  waited,  their  eyes  cast  down  and  hands  crossed 
over  their  aprons,  tightly  holding  the  ends  of  their  shawls, 
not  saying  a  word  to  each  other.  A  great  silence  was 
around,  in  the  damp  summer  sultriness  of  that  long  summer 
noon.  Annarella,  being  gentler,  more  saddened,  and  at  the 
same  time  less  infatuated  than  Carmela,  bent  her  shoulders 
to  her  fatal  destiny,  feeling  an  increasing  want  of  confidence 
in  any  means  of  salvation,  being  almost  sure  that  Gaetano 
would  never  be  brought  back  to  reason  by  any  prayer  nor 
charm.  She  felt  nothing  but  a  growing  fear  all  through 
her  low  spirits.  Carmela,  instead,  having  an  ardent,  loving 
soul  that  nothing  could  subdue,  felt  the  flame  of  passion 
light  up  within  her.  She  was  not  afraid  ;  no,  she  would 
have  dared  any  sight  or  danger  to  get  Raffaele's  heart 
again.  But  the  decrepit  servant,  bent  into  a  bow,  as  if  she 
wanted  to  reach  the  earth  again,  appeared  in  the  lobby  and 
made  a  sign  to  Carmela  to  come  in.  Without  making  a 
sound,  the  sisters  disappeared  into  the  other  room,  and  the 
door  shut  behind  them. 

'  Here  is  my  sister  that  I  told  you  of,'  whispered  Carmela, 
standing  aside  to  present  Annarella,  who  stood  just  behind 
her. 

Chiarastella  nodded  as  a  salutation.  The  witch  was  of 
middle  height,  or  a  little  below  it,  very  thin,  with  long  lean 
hands,  the  skin  of  them  shiny  from  sticking  to  the  bones ; 
her  body  moved  automatically,  as  if  she  could  stiffen  every 
muscle  at  will.  She  had  a  small  head,  and  short  face 
covered  with  deep  red  blotches,  the  jaw  very  prominent ; 
her  complexion  was  of  a  warm  vivid  pallor,  and  the  nose  a 
short  one.  But  her  eyes  were  the  interesting  thing  in  the 
witch's  neurotic  face ;  they  had  a  very  mobile  glance,  and 
the  colour  varied  from  gray  to  green,  with  always  a  luminous 


210  THE  LAND  OF  COCK  A  YNE 

point,  a  sparkle,  in  them ;  the  glance  was  sometimes  shy, 
then  frightened-looking,  then  seemingly  carried  away  in  a 
spiritual  ecstasy ;  her  whole  vitality  was  summed  up  in 
them.  Chiarastella  looked  as  if  she  were  more  than  forty, 
but  her  hair  remained  very  black,  and  her  forehead  was 
marked  by  a  single  deep  wrinkle ;  but  when  her  eyes  lighted 
up,  an  irradiation  of  youthfulness  spread  over  her  face  and 
person.  She  wore  a  black  woollen  dress,  simply  made,  the 
usual  cut  among  the  common  people,  only  it  was  ornamented 
with  white  silk  buttons,  and  a  white  silk  ribbon  hung  at  her 
waist,  in  a  knot  with  two  long  ends,  at  the  side.  White  and 
black  are  the  colours  worn  by  the  votaries  of  Our  Lady  of 
Sorrows.  A  thick  crooked  red  coral  horn  hung  from  her 
neck  on  a  thin  black  silk  cord ;  in  making  some  careless 
gesture,  the  witch  often  touched  this  horn.  She  was  seated 
at  a  big  walnut  table  that  had  a  closed  iron  box  on  it,  of 
deep-cut,  artistic  workmanship,  an  antique,  evidently.  A  big 
black  cat  slept  beside  her,  its  paws  gathered  up  under  it. 
Set  round  the  small  room  were  a  little  sofa  of  faded  chintz 
and  five  or  six  chairs  ;  that  was  all  that  was  in  it.  On  the 
wall  was  a  black  wooden  crucifix  ;  the  figure  of  Christ,  carved 
in  ivory,  was  a  work  of  art  also.  She  kept  silence,  with 
her  eyes  down.  The  sisters  felt  that  a  great  mystery  was 
coming  near,  and  would  envelop  them. 

'  We  have  brought  the  ten  francs,'  Carmela  said  timidly, 
taking  them  out  of  the  corner  of  her  handkerchief  and 
putting  them  on  a  table  by  Chiarastella's  hand. 

The  witch  did  not  move  an  eyelash ;  only  the  black  cat 
raised  its  head,  showing  fine  yellow  eyes  like  amber. 

'  Have  you  heard  Mass  this  morning  ?'  Chiarastella  asked, 
without  turning  her  head. 

'  Yes,  we  have,'  the  sisters  muttered  shyly. 

She  had  a  low,  hoarse  voice — one  of  those  women's  voices 
that  seem  always  charged  with  intense  feeling — and  it  caused 
deep  emotion  in  the  heart  and  brain  of  the  hearers. 

'  Say  three  Aves,  three  Pater  Nosters,  three  Glorias,  out 
loud,'  commanded  the  witch. 

Standing  in  front  of  her,  the  sisters  said  the  words  of 
prayer  ;  she  said  them  too,  in  her  vibrating  voice,  her  hands 
clasped  in  her  lap  on  her  black  apron.  The  cat  rose  on  its 
long  black  legs,  holding  down  its  head.  Then,  altogether, 
the  three  women,  after  bowing  three  times  at  the  Gloria. 
Patri,  said  the  Salve  Regina.  The  prayers  were  ended.  The 


THE  THREE  SISTERS— CHI ARASTELLA          211 

witch  opened  the  wrought-iron  casket,  holding  the  lid  so  as 
to  hide  what  was  in  it,  and  groped  with  her  fingers  a  long 
time.  Then,  taking  out  some  little  things,  still  hiding  them 
in  her  hands,  she  got  mortally  pale,  her  eyes  became  wild, 
as  if  she  saw  a  terrible  sight. 

'  Holy  Virgin,  help  us  !'  Annarella  uttered  in  a  low  tone, 
shaking  with  fear. 

Now  Chiarastella,  with  a  yellow  lighted  taper,  burnt  two 
queer  scented  pastilles,  which  were  pungent  and  heavy  at 
the  same  time ;  she  gazed  intently  at  the  flying  smoke-rings  ; 
her  eyes  dilated,  showing  the  whites  streaked  with  blue,  as 
if  she  was  trying  to  read  a  mysterious  word.  When  the 
smoke  had  disappeared,  only  a  heavy  smell  was  left ;  the 
sisters  felt  stupefied  already,  from  that  smell,  perhaps. 
Monotonously,  not  looking  at  them,  Chiarastella  asked  : 

'  Have  you  made  up  your  mind  to  work  a  spell  on  your 
husband  ?' 

'  Yes,  provided  that  he  does  not  suffer  in  health  from  it,' 
Annarella  replied  feebly. 

'  You  want  to  tie  his  hands,  two  or  three  times,  so  that 
he  never  at  any  time  can  stake  at  the  lottery,  do  you 
not?' 

'  Yes,  that  is  it,'  the  other  answered  eagerly. 

'  Are  you  in  God's  grace  ?' 

'  I  hope  I  am.' 

'  Ask  the  Virgin's  help,  but  under  your  breath.' 

Whilst  Annarella  raised  her  eyes  as  if  to  find  heaven, 
the  witch  took  out  of  the  iron  casket  a  thin  new  cord,  looked 
at  it,  muttered  some  queer  irregular  verses  in  the  Naples 
dialect,  invoking  the  powers  of  heaven,  its  saints,  and  some 
good  spirits  with  queer  names.  The  chant  went  on  ;  the 
witch,  still  holding  the  cord  tight  in  her  hand,  looked  at  it  as 
if  filling  it  with  her  spirit ;  she  breathed  on  it  and  kissed  it 
devoutly  three  times.  Whilst  she  was  carrying  out  this 
deed  of  magic,  her  thin  brown  hands  shook,  and  the  cat 
went  up  and  down  the  big  table  excitedly,  spreading  its 
whiskers. 

Annarella  now  repented  more  than  ever  of  having  come, 
of  trying  to  cast  a  spell  on  her  husband.  It  would  have 
been  better,  much  better,  to  resign  herself  to  her  fate,  rather 
than  call  out  all  these  spirits,  and  put  all  that  mystery  into 
her  humble  life.  She  deeply  repented  ;  her  breathing  was 
oppressed,  her  face  saddened.  She  wanted  to  fly  at  once 

14—2 


212  THE  LAND  OF  COCKAYNE 

far  off  to  her  dark  cellar ;  she  preferred  to  endure  cold  and 
wretchedness  there.  It  was  her  sister  who  had  led  her  into 
such  an  extreme  measure  ;  she  had  done  it  more  out  of  pity 
for  her,  seeing  her  so  melancholy,  desolate,  and  worn  out  by 
sorrow  from  Raffaele's  desertion.  It  was  not  right — no,  it 
could  not  be — to  try  and  find  out  God's  will  by  witchcraft 
and  magic  in  any  case.  No  witchcraft,  however  powerful, 
would  conquer  her  husband's  passion.  She  had  read  one 
Saturday  in  his  eyes,  grown  suddenly  ferocious,  how  un- 
conquerable the  passion  was.  She  had  seen  him  ill-treat 
his  children  with  that  repressed  rage  that  is  capable  of  even 
greater  cruelty.  That  witchcraft,  you  see,  with  its  alarming 
prelude  and  continuation,  seemed  to  her  another  big  step  on 
the  way  to  a  dark,  fatal  end. 

Now  Chiarastella,  with  sharpened  features,  her  skin  more 
shiny  and  eyes  burning,  made  three  fatal  knots  in  the  twine, 
stopping  at  each  to  say  something  in  a  whisper.  At  the  end 
she  threw  herself  all  at  once  from  the  chair  to  kneel  on  the 
ground,  her  head  down  on  her  breast.  The  black  cat  jumped 
down  too,  as  if  possessed,  and  went  round  and  round  the 
witch  in  the  convulsive  style  of  cats  when  going  to  die. 

'  Mother  of  God,  do  not  forsake  me !'  Annarella  called  out, 
shaking  with  fear;  but  the  witch,  after  crossing  herself 
wildly  several  times,  got  up  and  said  in  solemn  tones  to  the 
gambler's  wife : 

'  Take — take  this  miraculous  cord.  It  will  tie  your 
husband's  hands  and  mind  when  Beelzebub  tells  him  to 
gamble.  Believe  in  God  ;  have  faith  ;  hope  in  Him.' 

Trembling,  feeling  hot  all  over  from  excessive  emotion, 
Annarella  took  the  witch's  cord.  She  was  to  put  it  on  her 
husband  without  his  noticing  it.  She  would  have  liked  to 
go  away  now,  to  fly,  for  she  felt  the  sultriness  of  the  room, 
and  the  perfume  was  turning  her  brain  ;  but  Carmela,  pale, 
disturbed  from  what  she  had  seen  and  the  commotion  in  her 
own  mind,  turned  an  appealing  look  on  her  to  get  her  to 
wait. 

Chiarastella  had  already  begun  the  charm  to  make 
Raffaele  love  Carmela  again.  She  called  Cleofa,  her 
decrepit  servant,  and  said  something  in  her  ear.  The 
woman  went  out,  and  came  back  carrying  with  great  care  a 
deep  white  porcelain  dish  full  of  clear  water,  looking  at  it  as 
if  hypnotized,  not  to  spill  a  drop ;  then  she  disappeared. 
Chiarastella,  with  her  face  close  to  the  dish,  muttered  some 


THE  THREE  SISTERS— CHIARASTELLA          213 

of  her  mysterious  words  over  the  water.  She  put  in  one 
finger,  and  let  three  drops  fall  on  Carmela's  forehead,  who 
at  a  sign  had  leant  forward  to  her.  Then  the  witch  lit  a  big 
wax  candle  Carmela  had  brought,  and  went  on  muttering 
Latin  and  Italian  words.  The  candle-wick  spluttered  as  if 
water  had  been  thrown  on  the  flame. 

'  Did  you  bring  the  lock  of  hair  cut  from  your  forehead  on 
Friday  evening  when  the  moon  was  rising  ?'  Chiarastella's 
hoarse  voice  demanded  in  the  middle  of  the  prayer. 

'  Yes,  I  have  it,'  said  Carmela,  with  a  deep  sigh,  handing 
a  tress  of  her  black  hair  to  the  witch. 

From  the  iron  casket  Chiarastella  had  taken  a  platinum 
dish  with  some  hieroglyphics  on  it,  as  shiny  as  a  mirror. 
On  this  she  put  the  hair,  and  raised  it  up  three  times,  as  if 
making  a  sacrifice  to  heaven.  Then  she  held  the  black 
tress  a  little  above  the  crackling  flame,  which  stretched  up 
to  devour  it ;  a  second  after  there  was  a  disagreeable  smell 
of  burnt  hair,  and  nothing  was  seen  on  the  dish  but  a  morsel 
of  stinking  ashes.  The  incantation  went  on,  Chiarastella 
singing  under  her  voice  her  great  love-charm,  which  was  a 
queer  mixture  of  sacred  and  profane  names — from  Bel- 
phegor's  to  Ariel's,  from  San  Raffaele's,  the  girl's  protector, 
to  San  Pasquale's,  patron  saint  of  women — partly  in  Naples 
dialect,  partly  in  bad  Italian.  She  afterwards  took  a  small 
phial  from  the  wrought-iron  box,  which  held  all  the  in- 
gredients for  her  charms,  and  put  three  drops  from  it  into 
the  plate  of  water,  which  at  once  became  a  fine  opal  colour, 
with  bluish  reflections.  The  witch  looked  again  to  try  and 
decipher  that  whitish  cloud  which  whirled  round  in  spirals 
and  volutes,  and  dropped  the  ashes  of  the  hair  in.  Gradually 
under  her  gaze  the  water  got  clear  and  limpid  again  in  the 
dish ;  then  she  told  Carmela  to  hand  her  a  new  crystal 
bottle,  bought  on  Saturday  morning  after  making  her  Com- 
munion, and  she  filled  it  slowly  with  water  from  the  dish. 
The  love-philtre  was  ready. 

'  Take  it,'  the  witch  said  in  her  solemn  tones,  ending  the 
incantation — '  take  and  keep  it  jealously.  Make  Raffaele 
drink  some  drops  of  it  in  wine  or  coffee.  It  will  inflame  his 
blood  and  burn  in  his  brain ;  it  will  make  his  heart  melt 
for  love  of  thee.  Believe  in  God,  have  faith,  and  hope  in 
Him.' 

'  It  is  not  poison,  is  it  ?'  Carmela  ventured  to  ask. 

'  It  will  do  him  good,  and  not  harm.     Have  faith  in  God.' 


214  THE  LAND  OF  COCKAYNE 

'  And  what  if  he  goes  on  despising  me  ?' 

'  Then,  that  means  that  he  is  in  love  with  someone  else, 
and  this  charm  is  not  enough.  You  must  find  out  who  the 
woman  is  that  he  has  left  you  for,  and  bring  me  here  a  bit 
of  her  chemise,  petticoat,  or  dress,  be  it  wool,  linen,  or 
cotton.  I  will  make  a  charm  against  her.  We  will  drive 
in  a  bit  of  her  chemise  or  dress  with  a  nail  and  some  pins 
into  a  fresh  lemon ;  then  you  must  throw  this  bewitched 
lemon  into  the  well  of  the  house  where  the  woman  lives. 
Every  one  of  these  pins  is  a  misfortune ;  the  nail  is  a  sorrow 
at  the  heart  of  which  she  will  never  be  cured.  Do  you  see  ?' 

'  Very  well,  I  will  try  and  find  out,'  said  Carmela,  in 
despair  at  the  very  idea  of  Raffaele  being  unfaithful. 

'  Let  us  go  away,'  said  Annarella,  who  could  bear  no 
more. 

'  Thank  you  for  your  kindness,  ma'am,'  said  Carmela. 

'  Thank  you  so  much,'  added  Annarella. 

'  Thank  God  !  thank  Him  !'  the  witch  cried  out  piously. 

She  cast  herself  down  again,  kneeling,  fervently  praying, 
while  the  big  black  cat  gently  mewed,  rubbing  its  pink 
nose  on  the  table.  The  two  women  went  out,  thoughtful 
and  preoccupied. 

'  That  witchcraft  is  not  good,'  said  Annarella,  in  a  melan- 
choly way  to  her  sister. 

'  Then,  what  should  be  done — what  can  be  done  ?'  the 
other  asked,  wringing  her  hands,  her  eyes  filled  with  tears. 

'  Nothing  can  be  done,'  said  Annarella,  in  a  solemn  voice. 

They  went  down  slowly,  tired,  worn  out  by  that  long 
scene  of  witchcraft,  which  was  above  their  intellectual 
capacity,  and  depressed  by  the  tension  on  their  nerves.  A 
man  went  up  the  steps  of  Centograde  Lane  quickly,  turning 
towards  the  witch's  house.  It  was  Don  Pasqualino  De  Feo. 
The  sisters  did  not  see  him  ;  they  went  on,  feeling  the  weight 
of  their  unhappy  life  heavier,  fearing  to  have  gone  beyond 
the  limits  allowable  to  pious  folk,  and  that  they  had  drawn 
God's  mysterious  vengeance  on  the  heads  of  those  they 
loved. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

THE  CONFECTIONER'S  SHOP  BANKRUPT 

CESARE  and  Luisella  Fragala  had  shut  the  shop  that  rainy 
summer  evening  at  nine  o'clock,  half  an  hour  earlier  than 
usual,  because  with  that  bad  weather,  that  boisterous,  warm 
scirocco  wind,  which  made  the  hot  rain  whirl  round,  few 
people  were  in  the  streets,  and  no  one  would  come  out  to 
buy  coffee,  a  bottle  of  brandy,  or  a  fancy  chocolate-box,  at 
that  hour  in  the  storm.  Only  some  purchaser  of  a  penny- 
worth of  cough-lozenges  came  in  occasionally,  bringing  in  a 
puff  of  wind  into  the  hot  shop,  dirtying  the  marble  floor 
with  his  wet  shoes.  The  evening  had  been  unsuccessful, 
like  the  rest  of  the  summer. 

Luisella,  who  was  suffering  from  low  spirits,  had  not  had 
the  courage  even  to  go  to  Santo  Jorio  for  country  quarters  ; 
it  is  one  of  the  villages  round  Naples  favoured  by  the  towns- 
folk. She  saw  too  many  clouds  coming  down  on  her  family 
peace,  just  as  in  the  Naples  skies,  to  dare  to  go  from  home 
and  leave  the  shop.  The  humble  pride  of  a  rich  tradesman's 
wife  who  stays  at  home  with  her  children  and  does  not  think 
about  the  shop  was  all  over.  She  left  Rossi  Palazzo,  that 
had  been  the  joy  of  her  middle-class  ambition,  early,  only 
to  come  back  at  the  dinner-hour,  go  out  again  at  once,  and 
just  come  back  in  the  evening  to  sleep.  It  was  quite 
another  affair  from  staying  with  the  children. 

Little  Agnesina,  who  was  three  years  old  now,  was  a 
florid,  quiet,  well-behaved  little  creature,  and  often  came  to 
see  her  mother  in  the  shop.  She  did  not  ask  for  sweets  or 
tarts,  but,  hidden  behind  the  tall  counter,  she  cut  out  silently 
those  slips  of  paper  that  are  put  like  cotton-wool  between 
one  sweet  and  another  in  the  boxes  sent  to  country  places. 
Agnesina  made  herself  useful  without  making  any  noise  or 
giving  trouble,  so  that  she  should  not  be  sent  away  nor  be 
left  at  home  with  the  cook  and  housemaid,  who  were  always 
bickering.  The  mother,  when  she  weaned  her,  would  have 


216  THE  LAND  OF  COCKAYNE 

liked  to  indulge  in  a  nurse,  a  Tuscan  by  preference,  so  that 
she  should  not  learn  the  Naples  dialect ;  but  just  as  she  was 
going  to  get  one,  on  thinking  it  over,  she  felt  the  subtle 
bitterness  of  a  presentiment,  and  gave  up  the  idea.  The 
little  girl  would  have  grown  up  with  no  training  ;  so,  not  to 
be  separated  so  long  nor  see  her  unhappy,  Luisella  allowed 
her  to  be  brought  to  the  shop  now  and  then. 

When  Agnesina  saw  her  mother  go  away  in  the  morning, 
she  ran  after  her,  not  crying  nor  yelling,  not  saying  any- 
thing, just  looking  up  in  a  questioning  way.  The  com- 
passionate mother  understood,  and  to  console  her,  seeing 
her  so  quiet  and  obedient,  she  made  her  a  promise  she  might 
come  to  the  shop  later  on.  That  made  the  tiny  arms  let  go, 
quite  satisfied,  as  if  she  had  made  up  her  mind  to  wait. 
When  she  opened  the  big  glass  door,  coming  in  in  her  plain 
cotton  frock  and  big  straw  hat,  she  smiled  at  her  mother  as 
if  she  was  a  big  child  already.  She  silently  went  to  put 
down  her  hat  in  the  back-shop  without  any  outburst  of 
greed,  very  happy  to  stay  beside  her  mother  behind  the 
high  counter.  Only  her  mother,  after  the  moment  of  the 
little  one's  arrival  was  over,  got  sad.  She  had  never 
thought  of  this,  of  coming  to  the  shop  every  day  for  twelve 
hours  to  sell  caramels  and  chocolate,  to  fill  paper  bags  and 
wooden  boxes,  always  to  have  to  be  ready  to  serve  the 
public,  whilst  her  little  one  cut  paper  strips,  not  saying  a 
word,  as  neatly  as  a  big  girl.  She  had  never  dreamt  her 
baby  would  be  a  shop-girl,  too. 

Luisella  certainly  did  not  despise  a  tradesman's  life ;  but 
she  would  have  liked  to  be  a  house,  and  not  a  shop,  keeper, 
a  housewife,  and  not  a  sweetmeat-seller.  She  had  not 
dreamt  of  this.  She  would  have  liked  to  sew  white  work, 
make  her  baby's  clothes,  teach  her  something — carols  at 
Easter  and  Christmas,  the  way  to  knit  stockings,  sewing, 
embroidery,  all  that  is  the  humble  but  glorious  inheritance 
of  happy  wives.  But  instead  she  spent  her  life  in  public 
with  a  stereotyped  smile  on  her  lips,  not  able  to  say  a  word 
privately  to  her  husband  and  daughter,  nor  collect  her 
thoughts  a  single  moment.  She  had  taken  up  that  duty  of 
selling  in  the  shop  from  feeling  the  financial  embarrassments 
her  husband  was  in.  It  seemed  to  her  that  the  shop-lads 
robbed  him,  or  that  they  had  bad  ways  with  the  customers — 
that,  in  short,  there  was  need  of  a  woman.  For  this  she 
gradually  sacrificed  her  whole  day.  Now  no  source  of  com- 


THE  CONFECTIONER'S  SHOP  BANKRUPT        217 

mercial  aggrandisement  was  beyond  her ;  while  she  was  a 
zealous  counter-up  of  pence,  she  kept  house  on  a  still  more 
economical  footing  always.  That  was  not  enough,  evidently, 
because  her  husband's  low  spirits  began  to  be  still  more 
frequent.  It  must  have  to  do  with  large  transactions, 
buying  sugar,  flour,  coffee,  liqueurs — matters  she  could  not 
go  into.  Cesare  kept  them  out  of  her  reach  purposely. 
Still,  she  knew  the  price  of  goods,  and  it  made  her  wonder 
the  more  at  the  discomfort  they  were  in.  When  Cesare, 
not  able  to  hide  the  straits  he  was  in,  ended  by  owning  that 
he  could  not  pay  a  bill,  that  he  had  not  the  weekly  money 
to  pay  the  workmen  in  the  bakeries,  she  raised  her  eyebrows 
in  sad  surprise,  saying  : 

'  I  cannot  make  it  out.  I  do  not  see  why  we  are  so  short 
of  money.' 

Cesare  tried  to  humbug  her,  talking  some  nonsense  about 
Customs  and  colonial  tariffs.  He  spoke  vaguely  about 
losses  by  some  speculations  he  was  not  responsible  for,  saying 
the  whole  trade  was  going  to  the  bad.  So  she,  getting 
thoughtful,  ended  by  saying  : 

'  Then  it  would  be  better  to  shut  up  shop.' 

'  No,  for  goodness'  sake,  don't  say  that !'  he  cried  out. 

Ah  !  she  had  found  out  what  her  misfortune  was  in  the 
end.  Three  or  four  times,  without  intending  it,  she  had 
discovered  that  Cesare  was  not  so  honest  as  he  used  to  be, 
that  he  told  lies.  This  made  her  start  with  fright,  dreading 
worse  evils.  When  they  made  up  accounts  together,  he  said 
he  had  paid  so  much,  at  such  a  price,  and  it  was  not  true, 
or  he  had  paid  a  part  of  it  only.  He  had  got  to  be  a  bad 
payer.  The  two  landlords  of  the  flat  and  the  shop  com- 
plained several  times ;  they  had  their  burdens,  too ;  they 
could  not  wait  so  long  for  their  money.  She  had  discovered 
this  with  a  sharp,  secret  anguish.  When  she  questioned  her 
husband  severely,  he  got  pale  and  red,  stammered,  letting 
out  his  hidden  sin  by  his  whole  attitude.  For  a  moment 
Luisella  thought  she  was  deserted  for  another  woman,  and 
the  flames  of  jealousy  scorched  her  blood ;  but  Cesare  was 
always  so  tender  and  loving,  so  sincerely  and  thoroughly  in 
love  with  his  wife,  that  she  was  reassured.  No,  it  was  not 
that.  She  could  hardly  make  out  at  first  what  subtle,  dis- 
solving element  melted  away  the  money  in  the  house.  She 
discovered  that  the  increasing  debts  were  always  getting 
fatally  larger,  from  her  husband's  growing  absent-minded- 


21 8  THE  LAND  OF  COCKAYNE 

ness,  in  spite  of  the  sad  lies  he  told  her.  She  could  not 
make  out  by  what  tiny  wound  the  blood  of  the  Fragala. 
house  was  going  drop  by  drop.  It  was  in  vain  that  the 
shop  was  successful,  that  she  did  wonders  in  economy :  the 
money  disappeared  all  the  same.  She  felt  a  hollowness 
under  the  seeming  solidity  of  their  commerce ;  she  felt  the 
incurable  languor  of  a  body  losing  all  its  blood.  But  she 
saw  no  reason  for  it.  It  was  not  a  woman,  in  so  far  ;  then 
who  and  what  was  it  ?  Only  by  dint  of  searching  minutely 
and  lovingly  into  her  husband's  daily  life  had  she  ended  by 
understanding  what  it  was.  First  of  all,  Cesare  Fragala 
had  fallen  into  the  habits  of  all  keen  Cabalists ;  instead  of 
tearing  up  the  lottery  tickets  he  played  each  week,  he  was 
so  foolish  as  to  keep  them,  to  compare  and  study  them. 
One  day,  in  a  jacket-pocket,  Luisa  found  a  whole  sheaf,  a 
week's  collection  of  lottery  tickets,  four  or  five  hundred 
francs  thrown  thus  to  the  greedy  Government,  given  to  an 
impersonal,  hateful  being,  to  try  for  an  elusive  fortune. 
Perhaps,  in  spite  of  the  fright  she  got  then,  amid  the  blaze 
of  light  that  blinded  her,  she  thought  it  was  the  aberration 
of  one  week  only.  But  Cesare  was  too  simple  about  de- 
ceiving, for  her  to  go  on  thinking  so.  Luisa's  clever 
eyes  now  saw  that  Friday  was  a  day  of  the  greatest  excite- 
ment with  him.  She  saw  his  nervousness  in  the  early  hours 
of  Saturday,  and  the  evening  depression.  Now,  Luisa's 
heart  was  divided  by  two  sharp  sorrows  that  opposed  each 
other  :  first,  seeing  their  prosperity  always  flying  away,  then 
finding  Cesare  to  be  a  victim  to  an  incurable  moral  fever.  That 
fatal  period  began  with  her  when  one  may  suffer  from  seeing 
a  loved  one  given  over  to  a  tragic  passion,  and  yet  dare  not 
even  oppose  his  self-indulgence,  or  show  one  is  aware  of  it. 
She  was  still  patient,  for  she  disliked  the  idea  of  having  a 
grand  explanation  with  her  husband,  of  confronting  him 
with  his  vice  ;  she  still  hoped  it  would  be  a  fleeting  fancy. 

But,  to  dash  her  hopes,  day  after  day  she  saw  Don  Pasqua- 
lino  De  Feo,  the  medium,  in  the  distance,  circling  round  her 
husband  continually,  trying  not  to  let  her  see  him ;  but  she 
guessed  he  was  there,  as  a  woman  guesses  her  rival's 
presence.  She  felt  the  ill-omened,  mean  beggar  was  in  the 
back-lane,  at  the  street  corner,  or  under  the  gateway  wait- 
ing for  Cesare,  so  as  to  draw  more  money  out  of  him,  and 
incite  him  to  gamble  again  by  saying  silly  fantastic  things 
for  Cesare  to  draw  lottery  numbers  from,  figures  that  would 


THE  CONFECTIONER'S  SHOP  BANKRUPT        219 

never  come  out  of  the  urn.  Now  and  then,  in  spite  of  Don 
Pasqualino's  prudence  that  also  seemed  to  be  fear,  Luisella 
found  him  at  the  doorway,  or  at  the  street  corner,  and 
looked  so  coldly  and  disdainfully  at  him  that  he  cast  down 
his  eyes  and  went  off  in  his  awkward  way  like  a  man  who 
does  not  know  what  to  do  with  his  body.  Once  Cesare 
Fragala.  named  Don  Pasqualino  De  Feo  before  his  wife, 
watching  to  see  if  her  face  changed ;  her  sweet,  affable  look 
went  off:  she  got  to  have  a  cold  expression,  and  frowned. 
He  dared  not  name  the  medium  again.  Indeed,  he  had  had 
to  warn  him  of  his  wife's  ill-will,  so  Don  Pasqualino  got 
still  more  cautious ;  if  he  wanted  to  call  Fragala  when  he 
was  at  business,  he  sent  a  newsboy  from  the  Bianchi  corner. 
But  Luisella  found  out  whence  these  mysterious  calls  came 
also  ;  she  shook  her  head  as  she  saw  her  husband  go  out  of 
the  shop  with  an  affectation  of  carelessness. 

The  more  the  medium  circled  around,  always  dressed 
like  a  pauper,  still  torn  and  dirty,  always  a  sucker-up  of 
money,  of  everything,  the  more  she  felt  her  husband's  rage 
for  the  lottery  was  not  a  temporary  caprice,  but  incurable 
vice.  Now,  on  Friday  nights,  he  came  in  very  late  ;  she, 
pretending  to  sleep,  heard  quite  well  that  he  was  awake, 
uneasy,  turning  in  his  bed,  knocking  his  head  on  the  pillows. 
Besides,  while  Cesare's  fever  did  not  go  down,  the  shop's 
prosperity  did  visibly.  The  wholesale  dealers,  seeing  that 
Fragala  was  always  asking  for  renewals  of  bills,  or  that  he 
barely  paid  a  part  of  them,  got  suspicious ;  they  put  off 
sending  the  goods,  they  even  got  to  sending  them  on  con- 
signment, which  is  a  grave  proof  of  want  of  confidence 
commercially,  a  thing  that  ruins  a  trader ;  for  he  has  to 
keep  the  goods  in  the  Custom-house,  not  having  money  to 
take  them  out.  He  goes  on  paying  storage,  knowing  all 
the  time  that  the  things  are  deteriorating. 

The  warning  that  Fragala  was  not  quite  solvent  must 
have  run  from  Napoli  Square  to  other  parts,  for  he  began 
to  find  all  doors  shut  if  he  did  not  come  money  in  hand ;  his 
having  signed  money-lenders'  bills  spoilt  his  credit  alto- 
gether. Still,  his  reputation  and  means  stood  it  so  much 
the  more  that  it  was  the  reputation  of  all  the  Fragalas  to- 
gether. But  that  could  not  last.  One  final  blow,  and  his 
commercial  standing  would  go  also. 

Now  the  bad  summer  season  had  come,  with  a  scarcity 
of  country  visitors,  which  caused  a  languor  of  all  Naples' 


220  THE  LAND  OF  COCKAYNE 

forces,  a  crisis  that  went  on  increasing  among  all  classes ; 
for  everyone  lives  off  strangers  in  that  town  of  no  commerce. 
It  was  no  use  for  Luisella  Fragala  to  give  up  her  change  to 
the  country  that  year  for  the  first  time ;  nothing  had  come 
of  it.  Goods  were  short  in  the  storehouses  from  the  sus- 
piciousness  of  dealers,  and  customers  were  still  scarcer  from 
the  bad  weather. 

Luisella  could  not  manage  to  keep  down  her  depression 
now  ;  the  pretty  young  face  had  got  to  have  a  grave  ex- 
pression, her  head  was  often  down  on  her  breast.  She 
thought  and  thought,  as  if  her  soul  was  absorbed  in  a  most 
difficult  problem  ;  for  one  thing,  she  saw  that  her  husband's 
mental  malady  was  always  getting  worse.  He  was  so  sor- 
rowful at  some  moments,  it  wrung  one's  heart  to  look  at 
him.  Besides,  the  bad  weather  affected  her,  too  ;  all  suf- 
fered from  it,  rich,  well  to  do,  and  poor,  for  in  this  great 
country  everything  radiates,  joy  as  well  as  grief,  good 
fortune  as  well  as  bad.  Now  she  had  decided  to  speak,  to 
question  her  husband's  heart,  for  the  situation  was  getting 
gradually  worse,  it  was  desperate  ;  in  a  short  time  he  would 
be  ruined. 

Being  quite  decided  now  in  her  loving,  strong,  womanly 
heart,  having  made  up  her  mind  to  act,  she  kissed  her  dear 
little  one,  who  was  so  quiet  and  prettily  behaved,  saying  to 
herself  she  would  speak,  she  would  bring  out  everything. 
Her  life  was  already  grievous  from  her  responsibilities  as 
wife  and  mother  ;  the  gay,  idyllic  time  was  past  for  ever,  the 
long  sad  hour  was  come  when  she  needed  all  her  courage 
to  influence  and  convince  Cesare.  It  was  really  a  battle 
she  intended  to  hold  that  evening  in  the  steamy  shop,  whilst 
the  summer  rain  rattled  sadly  outside. 

It  was  Friday ;  still,  for  a  wonder,  Cesare  Fragala  had  not 
left  the  shop  that  evening,  as  he  had  got  into  the  habit  of 
doing  every  week  at  dusk,  not  to  return  till  three  in  the 
morning,  the  time  the  last  lottery-shop  shut.  He  went 
backwards  and  forwards  nervously ;  twice  the  usual  news- 
paper boy  had  come  to  call  him  for  Don  Pasqualino :  he 
answered  that  the  person  must  wait,  because  he  was  busy. 
Pale  and  trembling,  feeling  she  had  got  to  an  important 
crisis,  his  wife  followed,  with  a  side-glance,  her  husband's 
wanderings.  Outside,  the  rain  beat  sadly  on  the  windows, 
the  gas-flame  looked  sickly. 

'  Shall  we  shut  up  shop  now  ?'  Fragala  said  impatiently. 


THE  CONFECTIONER'S  SHOP  BANKRUPT        221 

*  It  would  be  best,  no  doubt,'  she  said,  with  a  slight  sigh, 
'  especially  as  no  one  will  be  coming  in.' 

The  two  shopmen,  helped  by  the  porter  and  message-boy, 
made  haste  to  put  up  the  iron  gates,  put  out  the  outside  gas, 
and  give  a  general  cleaning  up  before  going  away  by  the 
little  back-shop  door  in  Bianchi  Lane.  Quickly  they  said 
good-night  and  set  off,  one  by  one.  The  white  shop,  its 
shelves  brilliant  with  colour  from  the  chocolate-boxes,  was 
now  lit  by  one  gas-jet  only.  Luisella  was  seated  behind 
the  counter,  as  usual,  and  little  Agnesina  had  gone  to  sleep 
in  her  chair,  her  knees  covered  with  shreds  of  paper. 
Cesare  often  disappeared  into  the  back-shop,  as  if  he  could 
get  no  peace.  Neither  of  them  could  make  up  their  mind 
to  speak,  feeling  that  it  was  a  grave  crisis  that  they  had 
come  to.  She,  above  all,  felt  herself  choking.  It  was  he 
who  spoke  first. 

'  Look  here,  Luisella,'  he  said,  in  a  low  voice  :  '  you  know 
what  a  bad  season  we  have  had.' 

'  Yes,  a  wretched  one,'  she  muttered. 

'  It  is  a  real  disaster,  I  assure  you,  my  dear — enough  to 
make  one  give  up  keeping  shop.  You  carry  out  economies, 
I  work  hard  .  .  .  and  it  goes  from  bad  to  worse.' 

'  I  know  that,'  she  muttered  again,  as  if  tired  of  those 
grumbles. 

'  You  cannot  know  the  full  extent  of  it  ...  you  would 
have  to  deal  directly  with  the  wholesale  houses  to  know 
what  ruin ' 

'  Come  to  the  point,'  she  said,  rather  bitterly. 

'  Are  you  angry  with  me  ?'  Cesare  asked  humbly. 

'  No,  it  is  not  that,'  she  replied,  in  a  curious  tone. 

'  Well,  I  want  you  to  do  me  a  favour — a  great  favour,  so 
great  I  am  ashamed  to  ask  it,  even.' 

'  Say  what  it  is,'  she  just  uttered,  keeping  down  the  pained 
feeling  her  husband's  words  caused  her. 

'  I  have  a  payment  to  make  to-morrow  morning.  .  .  .' 

'  To-morrow,  in  the  morning,  do  you  say  ?' 

'  Yes ;  it  is  a  bill  that  falls  due.  I  had  forgotten  it.  It  is 
a  big  bill.' 

'  Still,  you  had  forgotten  it  ?' 

'  You  know  I  have  got  rather  confused  lately  ...  in  short, 
I  must  pay,  and  I  am  not  ready.  I  asked  in  vain  for  a  renewal 
or  if  I  might  pay  part  only.  Everyone  wants  his  money  just 
now.  I  cannot  pay,  and  there  is  no  money  to  be  had.' 


222  THE  LAND  OF  COCKA  YNE 

'  Then,  what  is  it  that  you  want  of  me  ?'  she  said,  looking 
coldly  at  him. 

'  You  could  help  me ;  you  could  get  me  out  of  this 
momentary  embarrassment.  I  will  give  you  back  the  money 
at  once.' 

'  I  have  no  money.' 

'  You  have  some  valuables.  Those  diamond  earrings  I 
gave  you  :  they  are  worth  a  great  deal.  One  could  get  a  lot 
for  them.' 

'Would  you  like  to  sell  them?'  said  she,  shutting  her 
eyes  as  if  she  saw  something  horrible.' 

'  I  would  pledge  them — just  take  them  to  the  pawnshop, 
only  for  a  few  days.  They  will  be  redeemed  at  once.' 

'  Do  you  intend  to  pawn  the  diamond  earrings  ?' 

'  And  the  star — the  star  Don  Gennaro  Parascandolo  gave 
you,'  he  said  hurriedly,  in  an  anxious  tone. 

She  said  nothing,  just  kept  her  head  down  and  looked  at 
the  baby  quietly  sleeping.  Then,  in  a  whisper,  with  an 
irrepressible  shudder,  she  said  to  her  husband  : 

'  You  want  to  pawn  my  jewels  so  as  to  stake  on  the 
lottery.' 

'  That  is  not  true  !'  he  cried  out. 

'  Do  not  tell  lies.  Can  you  say  before  me  and  your 
daughter  that  you  won't  use  the  money  for  the  lottery  ?' 

'  Do  not  speak  to  me  like  that,  Luisella  !'  he  stammered 
out,  with  tears  in  his  eyes. 

'  You  want  them  to  stake  on  the  lottery  with.  Have  the 
courage  of  your  vices  ;  don't  load  your  conscience  with  lies,' 
his  wife  answered  with  the  cruelty  of  desperation. 

'  It  is  not  a  vice,  Luisa  ;  it  is  for  good  ends  I  gambled, 
for  good  motives,  for  your  sake  and  Agnesina's.' 

'  A  father  of  a  family  does  not  gamble.' 

'  It  was  to  open  the  new  shop  in  San  Ferdinando  Square. 
Seventy  thousand  francs  were  needed  for  it,  and  I  had  not 
got  it.  You  know  all  our  money  is  in  use.' 

'  A  family  man  ought  not  to  play.' 

'  It  was  for  the  happiness  of  us  all,  Luisella.  I  swear  to 
you,  believe  me,  it  was  because  of  my  love  for  Agnesina.' 

'  You  don't  love  her.  If  you  cared  for  her,  you  would  not 
gamble.' 

'  Luisella,  don't  humiliate  me — don't  make  me  out  mean. 
Be  kind.  You  know  how  much  I  loved  you — how  I  do 
love  you !' 


THE  CONFECTIONER'S  SHOP  BANKRUPT        223 

'  It  is  not  true.  If  you  loved  me,  you  would  not 
gamble.' 

He  threw  himself  on  an  iron  seat,  leant  his  arms  and 
head  on  a  marble  table,  and  hid  his  face,  not  able  to  bear 
his  wife's  anger  and  his  own  remorse.  He  felt  great  grief 
and  sorrow,  only  surmounted  by  that  sharp,  piercing  need 
of  money.  With  that  agony  he  raised  his  head  again,  and 
said : 

'  Luisella,  if  my  honour  is  dear  to  you,  don't  force  me  to 
make  a  poor  figure  to-morrow.  Give  me  your  jewels  ;  I 
will  give  them  back  on  Monday.' 

'  Take  the  jewels ;  they  belong  to  you,'  she  said  slowly, 
with  her  eyes  down ;  '  but  do  not  say  you  will  give  them 
back  on  Monday,  because  it  is  not  true.  All  gamblers  lie 
like  that,  but  pledged  goods  never  come  back  to  the  house. 
Take  all  the  jewellery.  What  can  I  say  against  your  taking 
it  ?  I  was  a  poor  girl  with  no  dowry,  and  you,  a  rich 
merchant,  condescended  to  marry  me,  and  gave  me  a  higher 
position.  Should  I  not  thank  you  for  that  all  my  life  ? 
Take  everything  ;  be  master  of  the  house,  of  me  and  my 
daughter.  To-day  you  will  take  the  jewels  and  stake  them ; 
next  time  you  will  take  the  best  furniture,  the  kitchen 
coppers,  the  house  linen  ;  it  always  goes  on  like  that.  The 
Marquis  di  Formosa,  too,  who  lives  above  us — has  he  not 
done  that  ?  His  daughter  has  not  a  bit  of  bread  to  put 
in  her  mouth  now :  and  if  Dr.  Amati  did  not  help  them 
secretly,  both  would  die  of  hunger.  Who  will  help  us  when, 
in  a  year  or  six  months,  we  are  like  them  ?  Who  knows  ? 
Perhaps  I  will  go  mad,  too,  as  the  poor  young  lady  up  there 
threatens  to  do.  Her  father  makes  her  see  spirits.  It  is  a 
scandal  amongst  all  those  who  know  her.  But  what  are  we 
women  to  do  ?  Fathers,  husbands,  are  the  masters.  Take 
the  diamonds,  pawn  them,  sell  them,  throw  them  into  the 
gulf  where  your  money  has  fallen  and  is  lost ;  I  do  not  care 
for  them  now.  They  were  my  pride  as  a  happy  wife. 
When  I  put  them  in  my  ears  and  hair,  when  I  opened  the 
casket  to  look  at  them,  I  blessed  your  name,  because, 
among  other  pleasures,  you  had  given  me  this.  It  is  ended; 
it  is  all  over.  We  are  done  with  pleasures  now  ;  we  are  at 
the  last  gasp.' 

'  Luisella,  have  some  charity  !'  he  screamed  out,  feeling 
his  flesh  and  soul  burn  from  these  red-hot  words. 

'  Charity  !  we  will  soon  be  asking  for  it.     The  diamonds 


224  THE  LAND  OF  COCK  A  YNE 

go  to-day,  the  other  valuables  next ;  then  all,  everything  we 
possess,  will  disappear.  It  will  all  be  a  flying  dream,'  she 
replied,  looking  in  front  of  her  as  if  she  already  saw  the 
frightful  vision  of  their  ruin. 

'  Still,  I  need  them  ;  it  is  necessary  for  me  to  take  them  !' 
he  cried  out  with  the  doleful  persistence  of  a  desperate  man 
who  only  feels  his  evil  tendencies  pushing  him  on. 

'  Who  is  denying  you  anything  ?  Even  Agnesina  has 
pearl  earrings.  Put  them  in ;  it  will  make  a  larger  sum. 
Her  cradle  has  antique  lace  on  it ;  Signora  Parascandolo 
presented  it  to  her.  It  is  valuable.  Take  it ;  it  will  bring 
up  the  sum.' 

'  Look  here,  Luisa,'  her  husband  began  saying  pantingly, 
emotion  choking  his  utterance,  '  I  swear  to  you  the  money 
is  not  intended  for  gambling ;  I  would  not  have  dared  to 
ask  it  from  you,  a  good  woman,  if  it  was.  You  have  such 
good  reasons  to  despise  me  already.  But  it  is  a  debt  for 
former  stakes  I  made— a  terrible  debt  to  a  money-lender. 
He  threatens  to  protest  it  to-morrow — to  seize  my  goods. 
This  cannot  be  allowed  to  happen  ;  a  merchant  whose  bills 
are  protested  ought  to  die.' 

'  That  is  true,'  she  said,  hanging  her  head. 

'  It  may  be,'  he  added  after  a  short  hesitation.  '  Perhaps 
I  would  have  taken  some  of  it  to  gamble  with — just  a  little, 
only  to  try  and  recoup  myself — only  for  that,  Luisella.' 

'  In  short,  you  cannot  keep  from  gambling !'  his  wife  cried 
out  in  a  rage. 

He  trembled  like  a  guilty  boy,  and  did  not  answer. 

'  Can  you  not  keep  from  it  ?'  she  asked  again,  attacked  by 
a  most  terrible  fear. 

'  Look  here,  this  is  how  it  is  :  it  is  a  perfidious  passion. 
You  do  not  know  what  it  is ;  you  must  have  felt  it  to  know ; 
you  must  have  panted  and  dreamt,  or  you  cannot  think  what 
it  is  like.  One  starts  gambling  for  a  joke,  out  of  curiosity, 
as  a  little  challenge  to  fortune.  One  goes  on,  pricked  to  the 
quick  by  delusions,  excited  by  vague  desires  that  grow. 
Woe  to  you  if  you  win  anything — an  ambo,  a  small  terno  I 
It  is  all  up  with  you,  for  your  chance  of  winning  seems 
certain.  Do  you  see  ?  You  feel  certain  of  winning  a  large 
sum,  as  you  have  managed  to  get  a  small  amount,  and  you 
put  back  not  only  all  you  have  gained,  but  you  double, 
treble  the  stake  in  the  weeks  that  follow  your  success.  It 
is  the  devil's  money  going  back  to  hell.  What  a  passion  it 


THE  CONFECTIONERS  SHOP  BANKRUPT        225 

is,  Luisella !  It  is  bad  for  one  to  win,  and  bad  not  to  win. 
Then  the  dream,  that  for  seven  days  keeps  you  alive,  on  the 
eighth  day  gives  you  a  bitter  disappointment ;  it  ends  by 
setting  your  blood  on  fire,  and  to  increase  your  chances  of 
winning  at  any  cost,  your  stakes  increase  frightfully ;  the 
desire  of  winning  gets  to  be  a  madness.  The  soul  gets  sick ; 
it  neither  sees  nor  hears  anything.  No  family  ties,  position, 
nor  fortune,  can  stand  against  this  passion.' 

'  My  God!'  she  said  softly,  just  as  if  she  were  going  to  fall 
into  a  chasm. 

'You  are  right,  Luisella,  to  ill-use  me,  to  strike  at  me 
with  your  scorn  ;  you  have  a  right  to  do  it.  I  am  a  bad 
husband,  a  worse  father  ;  I  have  beggared  my  family.  You 
are  quite  right,'  Cesare  said  again  convulsively.  '  I  was  a 
cheerful,  industrious  young  fellow ;  all  wished  me  well ;  my 
business  was  going  splendidly ;  you  were  a  joy,  and  Agnesina 
a  pleasure  to  me.  What  fascination  has  overcome  me? 
That  cursed  idea  I  had  of  winning  seventy  thousand  francs 
at  the  lottery  to  open  a  shop  at  San  Ferdinando  with — a 
cursed  idea  that  has  put  the  fire  of  hell  into  my  blood.  I 
wanted  to  enrich  you  by  gambling,  whereas  grandfather 
and  father  taught  me  by  example  that  only  by  being  content 
with  a  little,  by  putting  sou  upon  sou,  one  gets  rich.  What 
folly  was  it  seized  me  ?  What  was  the  infection  ?  Where 
did  I  catch  it  ?  What  a  horrible  passion  gambling  is  !' 

The  poor  woman  listened  to  that  anguished  confession, 
pale,  her  lips  shaking  from  the  effort  she  made  to  restrain 
her  sobs,  leaning  against  the  elbows  of  the  chair,  feeling 
crushed  by  a  nameless  agony. 

« How  much  have  I  staked  ?'  Cesare  went  on.  He 
seemed  to  be  speaking  to  himself  now,  without  seeing  his 
wife  or  hearing  his  sleeping  child's  breathing.  '  I  do  not 
know,  I  do  not  remember  now.  The  lottery  is  a  great 
melter-down  of  money ;  it  is  like  a  crucible  the  metal  runs  out 
of.  At  first  I  played  moderately ;  I  tried  to  be  moderate  and 
wise  about  it,  as  if  the  lottery  was  not  the  most  laughable 
trick  that  fortune  plays  on  man.  At  that  time  I  wrote  down 
the  money  I  staked  in  a  pocket-book  where  I  note  my 
ordinary  expenses  ;  but  afterwards  the  fever  seized  me,  and 
has  grown  so,  I  remember  no  more.  I  do  not  remember 
how  many  thousands  of  francs  I  threw  away  so  madly  in  an 
ugly  dream,  a  delirium  that  came  back  again  every  Friday. 
Luisella,  you  do  not  know  it,  but  we  are  ruined.' 

15 


226  THE  LAND  OF  COCKAYNE 

'  I  do  know  it,'  she  said  very  softly,  looking  at  the  little 
one's  pink  face  sleeping  in  childish  serenity. 

'  You  do  not  know,  you  cannot  know,  everything.  I  have 
given  bills  for  the  money  put  aside  for  yearly  payments ; 
I  have  staked  the  thousand  francs  we  put  in  the  savings 
bank  for  Agnesina ;  I  have  robbed  her  of  the  money  I  gave 
her — her  own  money  ;  I  have  failed  to  carry  out  my  bargains 
commercially.  Our  correspondents  have  no  confidence  in 
my  soundness  ;  they  will  have  no  more  to  do  with  me;  they 
send  me  no  goods.  You  see  the  shop  is  getting  empty ;  I 
have  no  ready  money  to  fill  it  again.  I  have  not  even  paid 
the  insurance  money  ;  if  the  shop  was  burnt  down  to- 
morrow, I  would  not  get  a  farthing.  I  am  a  bad  payer. 
You  do  not  know — you  can't.  I  have  tried  for  money  every- 
where in  desperation ;  put  myself  in  a  money-lender's  hands, 
mostly  in  Don  Gennaro  Parascandolo's,  and  they  have  eaten 
me  up  to  the  bone.' 

'  Did  you  borrow  money  from  Agnesina's  godfather  ?' 
Luisella  exclaimed  sadly,  hiding  her  face  in  her  hands. 

'  In  money  matters  no  relationship  counts  ;  money 
hardens  all  hearts.  These  debts  are  my  shame  and  torment. 
A  tradesman  who  takes  money  at  eight  per  cent,  a  month 
is  thought  to  be  ruined,  and  they  are  right.  Money-lending 
is  dishonest  both  in  the  borrower  and  lender.  What  shall 
I  do  ?  The  season  is  a  very  bad  one  for  poor  and  rich  ; 
but  even  if  it  was  a  splendid  one,  the  gains  would  not  be 
enough  even  to  pay  the  interest  on  my  debts.  Just  think  : 
it  is  a  miracle  that  Cesare  Fragala,  the  head  of  the  Fragala 
house,  has  not  yet  been  declared  bankrupt,  and  a  discredit- 
able bankrupt ;  for  a  merchant  cannot  take  creditors'  money 
to  stake  on  the  lottery.  It  is  theft,  you  understand,  theft, 
and  thieves  go  to  the  gallows.  After  reducing  my  family  to 
wretchedness,  I  will  take  their  honour  from  them  by  this 
hellish  madness.' 

Not  able  to  bear  his  unhappiness  any  longer,  he  burst 
into  sobs,  choking  and  crying  like  a  child.  She,  shaking 
with  emotion,  feeling  in  her  heart  a  great  pity  for  her 
husband  and  a  great  fear  for  the  future,  raised  her  head 
resolutely. 

'  There  is  no  remedy,  then  ?'  she  said,  in  her  firm  voice, 
like  a  good,  loving  woman. 

'There  is  none,'  he  answered,  opening  his  arms  in  a 
despairing  way. 


THE  CONFECTIONERS  SHOP  BANKRUPT        227 

'  We  are  on  a  precipice.  I  understand — I  see  it.  But 
there  must  be  some  way  of  mending  matters,'  she  reiterated 
obstinately,  not  willing  to  give  in  without  a  struggle. 

'  Pray  to  the  Virgin  for  help — pray  !'  he  whispered,  like  a 
child — more  lost  than  a  child. 

'  Let  us  try  and  find  some  cure,'  she  still  answered  softly. 

'  You  try  ;  I  can  do  no  more.  I  have  no  will  or  strength 
left.  You  must  search  for  it.  I  am  lost,  and  nothing  will 
save  me.' 

The  despairing  words  seemed  to  echo  in  the  gay,  white 
shop,  shining  with  satin  and  porcelain.  There  was  a  deep 
silence  between  the  couple.  She,  wrapped  in  thought,  with 
the  firm,  introspective  glance  of  a  strong  woman,  counted 
over  the  extent  of  her  misfortune.  She  did  not  feel  angry 
now.  All  rage  had  fallen  at  the  young  fellow's  agonized 
voice.  He  had  been  so  easy  and  merry,  and  now  he 
stammered  out  piteously  his  irreparable  mistake.  What 
she  had  heard,  the  anguish  bursting  forth  from  her  husband's 
inward  heart,  what  she  had  guessed  at,  and  that  grievous, 
impressive  spectacle,  had  done  a  work  of  cleansing.  All 
personal  resentment  had  gone  from  her  generous  mind. 
She  only  felt  a  strong  desire  for  self-sacrifice,  for  saving  her 
husband  and  his  home.  The  littleness  that  sometimes 
limited  her  womanly  mind  had  gone.  Her  soul  rose  to 
unselfish  heights  of  sacrifice.  He  kept  to  earth,  tied  down 
by  his  engrossing  passion.  He  did  not  show  even  the 
Marquis  di  Formosa's  greatness  under  it.  His  grief,  his 
lamentation,  were  as  monotonous  and  rhythmical  as  a 
child's.  She,  on  the  other  hand,  on  meeting  misfortune 
became  spiritualized,  and  let  the  noblest  part  of  her 
character  rule  her.  After  that  wild  confession  she  felt 
more  like  a  helpful  sister,  a  compassionate  mother,  than  a 
young  wife  ;  more  like  a  high  magnanimous  protector.  She 
forgot  all  her  natural  pretences  and  affectations  as  a  woman 
and  wife. 

He  was  weeping,  with  his  head  down  on  his  arm  against 
the  table,  like  a  wretched  creature  whose  unhappiness  is 
really  infinite  and  not  to  be  cured,  while  she,  deep  in 
thought,  pondered  over  means  of  setting  things  right.  But 
all  at  once,  with  a  hush,  she  told  him  to  say  no  more. 
Agnesina  had  wakened,  very  gently,  as  usual,  without 
weeping  or  crying.  Seated  queerly  on  her  tiny  chair,  she 
was  looking  at  her  mother  with  wide-open,  mildly-sparkling 


228  THE  LAND  OF  COCKA  YNE 

eyes.  Luisella  lifted  her  out  of  the  chair  she  was  fastened 
into  and  bent  over  to  kiss  her  little  one,  as  if  she  got  strength 
from  that  kiss  and  her  requited  love. 

The  tiny  one  looked  at  her  father  without  speaking, 
seeing  his  head  down  on  the  table ;  then  she  said,  '  Is  father 
asleep  ?' 

'  No,  no,  he  is  not  sleeping,'  said  her  mother  under  her 
breath,  as  she  went  into  the  back-shop  to  take  her  mantle 
and  hat.  '  Go  and  give  him  a  kiss.  Go  and  say  this  to 
him,  "  Father,  it  is  nothing — it  is  nothing."  ' 

The  obedient  infant  went  to  her  father,  leant  her  tiny 
head  against  his  knee,  and,  in  her  pretty,  singing  voice  said : 

'  Father,  give  me  a  kiss  ;  it  is  nothing,  nothing.' 

Then  the  poor  young  fellow's  swollen  heart  burst.  The 
most  scalding  tears  rained  on  his  little  one's  head. 

While  tying  her  bonnet-strings,  Luisella,  as  she  heard 
these  desperate  sobs,  shivered  to  keep  back  her  tears.  But 
she  did  not  interfere.  She  let  the  desolate  heart  find  a  vent 
and  take  comfort  in  kissing  the  little  one.  She,  full  of 
wonder,  went  on  saying  under  the  tears  and  kisses,  '  Father, 
father,  it  is  nothing.' 

'  Let  us  go  home,'  said  Luisella,  coming  into  the  shop 
again,  biting  her  lips,  trying  to  harden  her  heart. 

Still  moved,  Cesare  Fragala  took  his  little  girl  in  his 
arms,  as  he  did  every  evening  when  she  went  to  sleep  in 
the  shop,  and  put  on  her  woollen  hood,  tying  it  under  the 
chin.  Luisella  went  on  tidying  up  the  shop  a  little,  taking 
the  key  out  of  the  strong  box,  feeling  if  all  the  drawers  of 
the  counter  were  properly  shut,  with  that  instinct  for  work- 
ing with  their  hands  all  healthy,  good  young  women  have. 
They  put  out  the  gas,  and  Luisella  lit  a  taper.  Then  they 
went  away  through  the  back-shop  and  the  small  door  that 
led  into  Bianchi  Lane.  It  was  still  raining.  The  warm 
scirocco  wind  beat  the  tepid  summer  rain  in  their  faces  ;  but 
they  were  not  far  from  home.  Cesare  put  up  his  umbrella, 
his  wife  took  his  arm  to  shelter  from  the  rain,  the  child  was 
perched  on  his  other  arm  and  put  her  head  on  his  shoulder. 
All  three  went  along,  bowed  under  the  summer  storm,  not 
speaking,  clinging  one  to  the  other  as  if  only  love  could 
save  them  from  life's  tempest  that  threatened  to  overwhelm 
them.  At  night,  under  the  rage  of  heaven,  it  seemed  as  if 
they  were  going  on  and  on  to  a  sorrowful  destiny.  But  the 
two  innocent  ones  pressed  close  to  the  unhappy,  guilty  man, 


CONFECTIONERS  SHOP  BANKRUPT        229 

seeming  to  pray  for  him.  They  would  bring  him  into  safety. 
They  said  nothing  till  they  got  home,  where  the  servant  was 
waiting  for  them  at  the  open  door.  She  held  out  her  arms 
to  take  Agnesina  and  carry  her  to  her  room  to  undress  her 
and  put  her  to  bed.  But  the  little  one,  as  if  she  had  under- 
stood the  importance  of  the  time,  asked  her  father  and 
mother  to  kiss  her  again,  saying,  in  her  gentle,  baby  tongue, 
'  Bless  me,  mother ;  bless  me,  father.' 

At  last  they  were  alone  again  in  their  bedroom,  where  the 
silver  lamp  burned  before  the  Mother  of  Jesus,  the  holy 
grieving  Mother.  Cesare  was  depressed.  But  Luisella 
opened  the  glass  door  of  the  wardrobe  at  once,  where  she 
kept  her  most  valuable  things,  and  stood  for  a  little  search- 
ing in  that  half-light.  Then  she  pulled  two  or  three  dark 
leather  jewei-cases  out. 

'  Here  they  are,'  she  said,  offering  the  jewels  to  her 
husband. 

'  Oh,  Luisella  !  Luisella !'  he  cried  out,  agonized. 

'  I  give  them  to  you  willingly,  for  the  sake  of  your  honour. 
I  would  not  dare  to  keep  these  stones  when  we  are  in 
danger  of  failing  in  honesty.  Take  them.  But  by  all  that 
has  been  sweet  in  our  past,  by  all  that  may  be  frightful  in 
our  future,  by  the  love  you  bore  me,  that  I  bear  you,  for  our 
dear  child's  sake,  whose  head  you  wept  over  this  evening,  I 
implore  you  with  my  whole  heart,  as  one  prays  to  Christ  at 
the  altar,  give  me  a  promise.' 

'  Luisella,  you  want  to  kill  me  !'  he  cried  out,  putting  his 
hands  through  his  hair. 

'  Do  you  promise  to  leave  all  your  trade  affairs  in  my 
hands — debts  and  dues,  buying  and  selling?' 

'  I  do  promise.' 

'  Will  you  promise  to  give  me  all  the  money  you  have  or 
may  get,  and  not  try  to  get  money  without  my  knowledge  ?' 

'  I  will  give  it  to  you — all,  Luisa.' 

'  Promise  to  believe  me,  only  to  listen  to  my  advice  and 
what  I  say.' 

'  I  promise  that.' 

'  Promise  that  no  one  will  have  more  influence  than  me  ; 
promise  to  obey  me  as  you  did  your  mother  when  you  were 
a  child.' 

« I  will  obey  you  as  I  did  her.' 

'  Swear  to  all  that.' 

'  I  swear  it  to  the  Madonna,  who  is  listening  to  us.' 


230  THE  LAND  OF  COCKA  YNE 

'  Let  us  pray  now.' 

Both  piously  knelt  before  the  holy  images.  They  said 
the  Lord's  Prayer  in  a  whisper,  louder  at  the  end.  She 
raised  her  eyes,  and  said,  '  Lead  us  not  into  temptation,'  and 
he  rejoined,  very  humbly  and  disconsolately,  '  Lead  us  not 
into  temptation.' 


CHAPTER  XIV 

THE  MEDIUM'S  IMPRISONMENT 

THE  summer  rain  beat  sadly  on  the  pavement ;  two  broad 
yellow  gutters  went  down  the  sides  of  Nardones  Road ;  the 
sickening  sulphurous  smell  of  August  storms  was  in  the 
air.  In  San  Ferdinando  Square  the  cabs  had  their  hoods 
up,  and  were  shiny  all  over  with  rain,  dripping  on  all  sides. 
The  long  thin  horses  stood  with  their  heads  down,  drenched 
to  the  bones,  and  running  down  with  water.  The  drivers 
sat  huddled  up,  their  shapeless  hats  over  their  eyes,  keeping 
their  heads  down  and  hands  spasmodically  fixed  in  the 
pockets  of  their  torn  capes,  as  they  patiently  bore  the  deluge 
from  the  sky.  All  around  was  dreary-looking — the  royal 
palace,  the  porch  of  San  Francesco  di  Paolo  Church, 
the  Prefecture,  barracks,  and  large  coffee-houses — all  were 
dreary,  in  spite  of  the  grandeur  of  the  buildings  and  the 
numbers  of  lights  behind  the  plate-glass  windows.  There 
was  the  majestic  edifice  of  San  Carlo  Theatre  also ;  but  the 
whole  night  landscape  was  wrapped  up  in  the  noisy  tempest 
that  never  rested,  and  seemed  to  draw  new  force  from  its 
weariness  to  beat  on  houses,  streets,  and  men.  There  were 
few  passers-by,  and  these  looked  like  unhappy  folks'  ghosts 
walking  under  dripping  umbrellas,  or,  having  no  umbrella, 
they  scraped  along  the  wall  with  coat-collar  raised  and 
soft  hat  soaked  with  rain.  Some  few  wanderers  turned  the 
corner  from  Toledo  Street  into  Nardones  Road,  which  is 
a  broad  enough  street  in  the  best  quarter  of  the  town  ;  but 
it  has  an  equivocal  appearance,  all  the  same,  as  if  it  was 
uninhabited  and  unsafe.  It  had  no  shady  corners,  but 
shutter-closed  windows,  ill- lit  balconies,  and  half -open 
doors,  where  the  gaze  was  checked  by  a  dark  passage,  had 
a  suspicious  appearance.  Some  great  door  now  and  then 
broke  through  this  doubtful  impression,  from  the  brightness 
of  the  gas  and  width  of  its  courtyard,  but  a  shop  with  far 
from  clean  windows,  obscured  by  reddish  stuff  curtains 


232  THE  LAND  OF  COCK  A  YNE 

carefully  drawn,  a  feeble  light  coming  through  and  small 
or  large  shadows  showing  behind,  gave  a  new  feeling  of 
suspicion  and  uneasiness  to  the  minds  of  people  going  home 
that  way  who  might  be  bending  under  the  weight  of  cares 
and  long  fatigue. 

At  one  point  a  woman  with  a  black  shawl  barely  cover- 
ing her  yellow  dress  and  white  bodice  turned  the  corner 
from  Toledo  Street  and  went  up  Nardones  Road  slowly, 
holding  the  corners  of  the  handkerchief  on  her  head  tightly 
between  her  teeth,  sheltering  from  the  rain  under  a  very 
small  umbrella.  She  went  along  very  cautiously,  lifting 
her  feet  so  as  to  wet  her  bright  leather  shoes  as  little  as 
possible,  lifting  her  skirt  to  let  red  cotton  stockings  be  seen. 
When  she  passed  under  a  lamp-post's  reddish  light  she 
raised  her  head  and  showed  the  face,  now  sad  and  tired,  for 
all  its  commonplace  beauty,  of  Filomena,  Annarella  and  Car- 
mela's  unfortunate  sister.  She  got  as  far  as  the  suspicious- 
looking  shop  with  the  red  curtains,  and  stopped  before  the 
plate-glass  door  as  if  she  was  trying  to  see  someone  or  find 
out  what  was  going  on,  and  did  not  dare  to  open  the  door. 
She  could  make  out  nothing  but  some  dark  shadows  with  hats 
on  moving  about.  After  hesitating  a  little,  she  decided  to 
put  her  hand  on  the  knob  of  a  small  window  and  open  it. 
She  put  in  her  head  timidly,  and  called  : 

'Raffaele!  Raffaele  !' 

'  I  am  coming  immediately,'  the  young  Camorrist's  voice 
answered  from  inside  in  rather  an  impatient  tone. 

She  quickly  shut  the  window  again  and  set  herself  to 
wait  in  the  rain.  A  man  passed,  and  cast  a  queer  look  at 
her,  his  curiosity  aroused  by  meeting  anyone  in  that  strange 
stormy  weather  at  so  late  an  hour.  But  she  cast  down  her 
eyes  as  if  she  was  ashamed,  and  watched  the  end  of  Nar- 
dones Road  to  see  who  came  round  the  corner,  evidently 
being  much  afraid  of  being  recognised.  Suddenly  she  gave 
a  start.  Two  working  men  were  coming  along,  going  up 
Nardones  Road,  not  speaking  to  each  other,  getting  all  the 
rain  on  their  shoulders  The  one  man,  old,  hump-backed, 
dragging  his  leg,  turned  out  to  be  Michele,  the  shoeblack, 
not  carrying  his  block  for  once ;  the  other,  tall  and  thin, 
with  burning  eyes  in  hollow  sockets,  was  Gaetano,  the 
glover.  On  recognising  her  sister  Annarella's  husband, 
Filomena  gave  a  frightened  shiver  and  got  closer  to  the 
wall,  as  if  she  wanted  to  get  to  the  other  side  of  it.  She 


777.fi1  MEDIUMS  IMPRISONMENT  233 

lowered  her  umbrella,  and  prayed  silently,  with  lips  that 
could  hardly  stammer  out  the  words,  that  Gaetano  should 
not  recognise  her.  She  shivered  and  trembled,  fearing  the 
shop  door  would  open  and  that  Gaetano  would  see  the  man 
who  was  coming  out.  But  Gaetano,  as  he  was  getting  the 
full  force  of  the  rain  on  his  head,  took  no  notice  of  the  people 
on  the  road,  luckily  for  Filomena,  nor  did  the  shop  door  open 
as  he  passed.  Instead  of  that,  the  working  men  disap- 
peared, one  after  the  other,  into  a  gateway,  forty  paces  off, 
where  some  other  men  had  gone  in  before  them.  But 
Filomena  felt  her  cheeks  icy  under  the  rouge,  from  the 
fright  she  had  got,  and  she  opened  the  door  again  to  beg 
and  beseech  in  a  whisper  : 

'  Raffaele,  do  come  !' 

'  I  am  coming — I  am  coming,'  the  young  fellow  answered 
in  a  bored  tone,  not  even  noticing  that  the  poor  woman  was 
waiting  all  this  time  in  the  rain,  at  night,  in  a  wind-swept 
road. 

She  sighed  deeply.  Her  eyes  had  no  need  now  of  bistre, 
for  a  deep  line  of  fatigue  went  under  them,  and  they  were 
filled  with  tears.  The  rain  now  had  soaked  through  her 
green  cotton  umbrella  and  come  down  on  her  head.  It 
soaked  her  shiny  black  hair  and  ran  down  her  face  and 
neck,  a  warm  water,  like  tears.  But  she  did  not  even  feel 
the  rain  trickling,  for  she  felt  nothing.  She  did  not  see 
three  or  four  other  men  come  out  of  Toledo  Street,  go  on 
to  the  top  of  Nardones  Road,  and  disappear  into  the  gate- 
way where  Michele  and  Gaetano  had  rushed  in. 

Inside  the  shop  the  shadows  moved  about,  and  a  noise  of 
voices  in  discussion  arose.  She  got  up  closer  and  strained 
her  ears  anxiously  as  she  heard  Raffaele  cursing  and  threaten- 
ing. She  could  not  stand  the  noise  of  angry  voices.  Again 
she  opened  the  door,  crying  out  beseechingly : 

'  Raffaele,  Raffaele,  do  come !' 

Still  angrier  words  burst  out  on  all  sides  from  those 
drinking  and  gambling  in  that  wretched  coffee-house ;  then 
Raffaele  came  out  of  the  shop,  putting  on  his  hat  with  a 
bang,  as  if  he  was  being  pushed  from  inside.  On  finding 
himself  confronted  by  Filomena' s  humble  figure,  soaking, 
the  rouge  running  down  her  cheeks,  her  face  distorted  by 
fear,  he  cursed  impiously,  and  gave  her  an  ugly  shove. 

'  Come  on  home — do  come  !'  said  she,  taking  no  notice  of 
the  push  and  the  curses. 


234  THE  LAND  OF  COCKA  YNE 

The  camorrist  furiously  told  her  to  go  and  kill  herself. 
But  it  was  raining,  and  he  had  no  umbrella ;  his  short 
jacket  did  not  shelter  him  well,  so  he  got  under  her  um- 
brella, still  cursing. 

'  Be  patient  with  me,  be  kind,'  she  said,  lengthening  her 
steps  on  the  pavement  to  keep  alongside  of  him,  and  lower- 
ing the  umbrella  to  his  side,  so  that  he  should  not  get 
soaked. 

'  But  you  know  you  should  not  come  to  the  billiard- 
saloon,'  said  the  young  fellow,  with  suppressed  rage.  '  It 
bores  me  to  look  like  a  schoolboy  being  fetched  home — it 
bores  me.' 

'  Be  patient  with  me.  I  could  not  help  it,'  she  whispered, 
drinking  in  the  tears  that  ran  down  her  cheeks,  not  being 
able  to  wipe  them. 

'  I  will  leave  you — as  true  as  death,  I'll  leave  you  !  You 
have  your  sister's  fault.  She  was  so  ragged  she  disgusted 
me.  She  came  everywhere  to  look  for  me,  and  made  my 
friends  laugh  at  me.  I  left  her  for  that.  Do  you  under- 
stand ?' 

'  Poor  sister !'  she  moaned  out. 

'  You  are  not  ragged,  but  you  get  me  laughed  at  just  the 
same.  Do  you  hear  ?' 

'  Yes,  I  know.' 

'  If  you  don't  give  over,  I  will  leave  you,  as  I  did  Carmela. 
I  am  a  young  fellow  of  honour,  you  know.' 

'  Yes,  I  know  that.' 

'  Don't  come  here  again.' 

'  Very  well,  I  never  will.' 

They  still  went  on  with  this  talk,  for  he  felt  enraged  at 
losing  his  game  and  at  being  laughed  at  by  his  friends,  also 
at  not  having  any  money.  She  was  penitent,  feeling  that 
ill-treatment  was  her  just  punishment  for  playing  her  sister 
false ;  so,  while  he  bit  at  his  spent  cigar  in  a  corner  of  his 
mouth  and  went  on  abusing  her,  taunting  her  with  her  un- 
happy life,  calling  her  every  bad  name,  she  went  alongside, 
silent  and  pale,  for  all  the  rouge  had  run  down  with  the 
rain.  Her  wet  chemise  stuck  to  her  shoulders,  and  her  hair 
was  glued  to  her  forehead  with  damp.  She  went  on,  keep- 
ing down  the  umbrella  to  his  side,  bearing  his  insults  ;  for 
she  was  carried  away  by  sorrow  and  repentance,  and  said 
mechanically  over  and  over  again :  'It  is  little  to  what 
I  deserve.' 


THE  MEDIUM'S  IMPRISONMENT  235 

Up  there  all  those  who  went  in  at  the  gateway  on  the 
right  side  of  Nardones  Road  had  gone  up  a  stair  of  one 
flight,  opposite  the  chief  staircase,  which  was  a  little  broader. 
They  went  into  an  apartment  of  two  rooms  that  was  let  for 
an  office — so  called  by  the  owner  because  it  had  no  kitchen. 
But  the  two  rooms  were  so  low  in  the  ceiling,  so  badly 
lighted  by  two  small  windows,  the  red  brick  floors  were  so 
cold,  the  wall-paper  so  dirty,  and  the  paint  of  the  doors  and 
windows  so  greasy,  that  no  small  notary,  poor  advocate, 
doctor  without  practice,  or  dealer  in  doubtful  business, 
stayed  there  more  than  a  month.  The  cobbler  who  served 
as  a  porter  and  the  inmates  who  went  down  the  big  stair 
were  accustomed,  therefore,  to  see  new  faces  for  ever  going 
up  and  down  the  small  stair — young  and  old  men,  ushers 
and  commission  agents,  a  string  of  white-faced  people,  often 
very  queer-looking.  Who  troubled  themselves  about  the 
people  living  there  ?  No  one — not  even  the  porter.  He 
got  no  pay  from  the  occupiers  of  the  flat,  and  did  not  care 
therefore  if  the  tenants  were  changed.  On  the  big  stair 
busy  people  lived  :  house-agents,  writing-masters,  a  third- 
rate  dentist,  a  midwife,  and  others  of  queer  professions. 
They  went  up  and  down,  taken  up  about  their  own  interests 
and  business,  their  decent  poverty  or  unsuccessful  ill-doing. 
They  were  people  who  took  little  notice  of  their  neighbours, 
so  that  one  might  call  the  office,  that  always  was  having  new 
tenants  or  being  left  vacant,  rather  isolated.  The  ticket '  To 
Let '  stood  there  on  the  door  the  whole  year  round ;  every 
month  it  was  the  same.  When  the  apartment  was  let,  then 
the  tenant  carried  off  the  key  at  dusk ;  when  it  was  vacant, 
the  cobbler  kept  it  on  his  counter,  or,  if  he  was  away,  he 
handed  it  over  to  the  charcoal-dealer  opposite.  The  stair  of 
the  apartment  was  broken  in  places,  slippery  and  dangerous 
for  those  who  had  not  good  legs  and  sharp  eyes. 

Now,  that  August  the  little  place  had  been  occupied  for 
a  couple  of  months  by  a  neatly-dressed  young  gentleman, 
affecting  the  style  of  a  provincial  trying  to  be  fashionable. 
He  was  fat  and  thick,  with  a  bull-like  neck,  and  his  red 
hair,  joined  to  a  florid  complexion,  gave  him  an  apoplectic 
look.  So  the  office  was  opened  several  times  a  week  for  a 
few  hours,  and  two  or  three  men,  or  sometimes  more,  came 
in.  They  disappeared  up  the  staircase,  and  nothing  more 
was  heard,  nothing  showed  behind  the  dirty  window-panes  ; 
only  after  an  hour  or  so  these  men  appeared  again,  one  by 


236  THE  LAND  OF  COCKA  YNE 

one,  some  red  in  the  face,  as  if  they  had  shouted  for  a  long 
time,  others  pallid,  as  if  gulping  down  repressed  rage.  They 
vanished  each  one  by  his  own  road,  without  even  the  porter 
seeing  them  sometimes. 

But  one  evening  of  the  week,  always  the  same  one,  seven 
or  eight  men  met  in  the  office,  and  then  a  dirty  petroleum 
lamp,  covered  by  a  shade  that  might  cost  threepence,  lighted 
up  the  dirty  room.  Its  only  furniture  was  a  rough  table  and 
eight  or  ten  chairs,  of  odd  patterns.  On  that  evening  the 
confabulation  lasted  till  past  midnight ;  often  some  gesticu- 
lating shadow  showed  queerly  against  the  panes  ;  sometimes 
the  men  leant  out  of  the  window,  and  looked  stolidly  into 
the  dull  black  court,  as  if  they  saw  the  ghosts  of  their  own 
excited  minds.  The  cobbler,  tired  with  his  hard  day's  work, 
casting  an  indifferent  glance  at  the  windows  of  the  office, 
saw  it  was  still  lighted  up,  and,  shrugging  his  shoulders, 
went  off  to  sleep  in  his  den,  a  hole  under  the  staircase.  The 
courtyard  was  not  lighted  up ;  the  street  door  was  left  half 
open ;  some  people  still  went  out  and  came  in  cautiously 
from  the  so-called  great  staircase.  Some  mysterious  night- 
patient  of  the  dentist,  some  hurried  client  to  call  the  mid- 
wife, who  opened  the  door  mysteriously  to  go  out. 

It  was  after  midnight  when  Dr.  Trifari's  guests  went 
away  from  the  meeting,  all  together,  silently,  hurrying  down 
one  after  the  other  to  get  away  as  quickly  as  possible.  The 
last  one  pulled  the  office  door  behind  him,  and  it  gave  the 
creaking  noise  of  old  rotten  wood.  The  two  small  rooms 
that  formed  the  office  returned  to  their  solitude,  and,  with 
hearts  beating  high  in  the  excitement  of  their  dream,  the 
party  melted  away  through  the  town.  But  this  dreary 
evening  the  poor  cobbler  had  gone  to  bed  at  dusk,  wrapping 
himself  up  in  his  ragged  bed-covering  and  torn  cape  he  had 
worn  all  day,  feeling  the  chill  of  the  tertian  fever  and  the 
damp  of  the  stormy  weather  in  his  bones.  So,  in  the 
confusion  of  the  fever  that  had  come  on  like  a  block 
of  ice  on  his  chest,  he  heard  the  clatter  of  those  going  up 
and  down  the  big  stair.  Two  or  three  times  he  seemed  to 
hear  voices  raised  in  the  office,  where  there  was  a  window 
open,  and  the  scirocco  wind  carried  the  rain  rushing  in,  and 
made  the  oil-lamp  flicker.  The  rain  went  on  falling  in  the 
badly-paved  court,  covering  any  other  noise  ;  then  the 
window  was  shut,  and  no  more  could  be  heard.  Later  on 
the  shutters  were  fastened  too,  and  everything  sank  again 


THE  MEDIUM'S  IMPRISONMENT  237 

into  deep  shadow.  Still,  there  was  a  meeting  going  on 
there.  Trifari,  the  master  of  the  house,  had  been  the  first 
to  arrive  ;  he  lighted  the  lamp,  and  went  through  to  the 
second  room  to  arrange  some  things,  going  and  coming  from 
it,  with  his  hat  a  little  on  the  back  of  his  head.  In  spite  of 
the  scirocco  wind,  it  was  the  first  time  the  colour  had  gone 
out  of  his  red  face,  and  some  drops  of  sweat  came  out  on  his 
forehead.  Sometimes  he  stood  still,  as  if  he  repented  of 
what  he  was  going  to  do  or  thought  of  doing ;  but  he  quickly 
recovered  from  that  momentary  depression.  When  the 
shrill  bell  rang  the  first  time,  Dr.  Trifari  gave  a  start  and 
stood  still  uncertainly,  as  if  he  dared  not  open  it.  Still,  he 
went,  but  he  only  half  opened  the  folding- door,  with  great 
caution,  to  let  Colaneri  pass  through.  The  ex-priest's  face 
was  rather  gloomy,  and  his  shoulders  were  dripping  wet ; 
for  his  small  umbrella,  a  very  shabby  one,  only  protected 
his  head.  They  said  good-evening  to  each  other  in  a 
whisper  ;  Colaneri,  with  cautious  glances  from  behind  his 
spectacles,  dried  his  wet  hands  with  a  doubtfully  white  hand- 
kerchief— the  fat,  flabby,  whitish  hands  that  are  peculiar  to 
priests.  They  said  nothing  to  each  other.  The  same 
complicated  anguish  bore  down  on  them,  so  that  their 
Southerners'  loquacity  was  subdued ;  all  the  past  excite- 
ment, beaten  down  by  disappointments  following  each  other, 
had  ended  by  sapping  their  strength. 

Suddenly,  raising  his  head,  Colaneri  asked :  '  Is  he  to 
come?' 

'  Yes,  he  is  coming,'  Trifari  breathed  between  his  lips. 

'  Has  he  no  suspicion  of  what  we  are  going  to  do  ?' 

'  None  at  all.' 

A  gust  of  wind  came  into  the  room  and  nearly  put  out 
the  light.  It  was  then  Trifari  went  to  shut  the  window. 

'  We  are  only  doing  what  is  an  absolute  necessity,'  Pro- 
fessor Colaneri  replied,  repeating  aloud  the  excuse  with 
which  he  had  been  soothing  his  conscience  for  some  days. 

'  It  is  impossible  to  go  on  any  longer  like  this,'  the  doctor 
remarked  in  a  dull  voice ;  then  he  lighted  a  cigar  to  try  and 
look  at  his  ease,  but  he  did  not  manage  it :  he  let  the  match 
go  out. 

'  The  report  made  against  me  to  the  governors  is  frightful,' 
said  Colaneri  in  a  whisper,  with  his  eyes  down.  '  I  have  a 
lot  of  enemies — lads  I  ploughed  in  the  examinations,  you 
know.  They  reported  me  to  the  President  of  the  University 


238  THE  LAND  OF  COCKAYNE 

as  having  sold  the  exercises  to  some  students.  They  put 
down  the  names,  too.  .  .  .' 

'  How  could  they  know  all  that  ?'  the  doctor  asked  slowly. 

'  Who  can  tell  ?  I  have  so  many  enemies.  The  President 
made  a  dreadful  report ;  I  am  threatened.  .  .  .' 

'  With  being  turned  out  ?' 

'  Not  only  that ;  there  is  to  be  a  lawsuit.  .  .  .' 

'  You  don't  say  so  ?' 

'  I  have  so  many  enemies,  Trifari.  It  is  a  serious  threat. 
How  will  I  be  able  to  prove  my  innocence  ?' 

'  You  have  sold  these  exercises,  then  ?'  the  doctor  muttered 
cynically,  throwing  away  his  cigar. 

'  The  pay  is  so  wretched,  Trifari,  and  the  examinations 
are  all  a  fraud,  too.' 

'  If  they  take  you  to  law  it  will  be  bad  for  you.' 

'  I  am  ruined  if  they  do.  I  must  have  money  in  hand  at 
any  cost  this  time,  do  you  understand ;  if  not,  I  am  ruined. 
There  is  nothing  left  but  to  shoot  myself,  if  they  take  me  to 
law.  We  must  win,  Trifari.' 

'  We  will  win,'  the  other  affirmed  sternly.  '  I  have  a  lot 
of  trouble,  here  and  at  my  home.  My  father  has  sold 
everything ;  my  brother,  instead  of  coming  home  after  his 
service  as  a  soldier,  out  of  poverty  has  enlisted  in  the 
military  police ;  my  sister  is  not  to  be  married,  she  has  not 
a  farthing  of  dowry  now ;  she  is  reduced  to  making  dresses 
for  rich  peasants.  We  had  very  little,  and  I  have  eaten  all 
there  was,  and  there  are  a  number  of  debts,  of  calls.  .  .  .  The 
father  of  the  student  whom  we  forced  to  sign  a  promissory 
note  at  Don  Gennaro  Parascandolo's  wants  to  denounce  me  as 
a  cheat.  .  .  .  We  must  win,  Colaneri ;  we  cannot  live  another 
week  without  winning.  ...  I  am  more  ruined  than  you  are.' 

Here  the  bell  rang  very  gently. 

'  Perhaps  it  is  him,  do  you  think  ?'  Colaneri  asked  with  a 
little  shake  in  his  voice. 

'  No,  no,1  Trifari  answered ;  '  he  is  to  come  later,  when 
we  are  all  here.  ..." 

'  Who  took  the  message  to  him  ?' 

'  Formosa  took  it.' 

'  He  has  no  suspicion,  then  ?' 

'  No,  none.' 

'  Then,  the  spirit  has  not  told  him  anything  ?' 

'  It  looks  as  if  the  spirit  could  not  go  against  Fate,  for  it 
tells  him  nothing  about  this.' 


THE  MEDIUMS  IMPRISONMENT  239 

'  It  is  Fate,  I  suppose  ?' 

Another  ring  came.  Trifari  went  to  open  the  door.  It 
was  Marzano,  the  lawyer,  the  sprightly,  good-natured, 
smiling  old  man.  But  sudden  decrepitude  seemed  to  have 
come  over  him;  his  pallor  had  got  yellowish,  his  pepper- 
and-salt  moustache  was  quite  white,  and  had  got  thin  over 
his  mouth.  His  smile  had  gone  for  ever;  evidently,  as  death 
drew  near,  his  good  opinion  of  life  had  gone.  He  came  in 
sighing.  He  was  soaking,  his  overcoat  shone  with  drops  of 
water  all  over,  and  his  lean  hands  trembled.  He  sat  down 
saying  nothing,  and  kept  his  hat  well  down  over  his  ears, 
only  his  mouth  kept  up  the  old  habit  of  moving,  always 
chewing  ciphers.  Now  he  leant  his  pointed  chin,  where  a 
neglected  beard  was  growing,  on  his  stick,  being  so  wrapt 
in  thought  he  did  not  even  hear  what  Trifari  and  Colaneri 
were  saying  to  each  other.  Suddenly  he,  too,  having  the  same 
engrossing  thought,  asked :  '  Will  he  come,  do  you  think  ?' 

'  Of  course  he  will,'  the  other  two  answered  together. 

'  Has  he  not  guessed  ?' 

'  He  knows  nothing  about  it.' 

'  These  mediums  either  see  a  lot  or  they  see  nothing.' 

'  Better  so,'  the  other  two  muttered. 

Dr.  Trifari,  on  hearing  knocking  at  the  door,  went  first 
into  the  second  room  to  fetch  three  or  four  other  chairs,  and 
arranged  them  round  the  shabby  table.  Ninetto  Costa  and 
Don  Crescenzio,  the  lottery  banker  at  Nunzio  Lane,  came 
in.  The  stockbroker  had  lost  all  his  smartness.  He  was 
dressed  anyhow — in  a  morning  coat ;  his  too  light  overcoat 
had  big  splashes  of  wet  on  it ;  not  even  a  pebble  breast-pin 
shone  on  his  black  silk  necktie.  His  fine  lucky  man's  bright 
smile  that  showed  his  teeth  had  gone  too  with  the  smartness. 
The  stockbroker  was  going  on  with  difficulty  from  one 
settling-day  to  another,  taking  no  more  risks,  not  daring  to 
gamble ;  he  had  lost  all  his  audacity ;  he  only  managed  to 
keep  his  creditors  at  bay:  they  still  had  faith  in  him; 
because  his  name  was  known  on  the  Exchange,  because 
his  father  had  been  a  model  of  honesty  and  he  himself  had 
been  so  lucky,  all  still  believed  in  his  fortune.  But  the 
unhappy  man  knew  that  the  hour  of  the  crisis  had  come, 
that  he  would  not  even  be  able  to  pay  the  interest  on  his 
debts  soon,  that  Ninetto  Costa's  name  would  be  on  the 
bankrupt  list.  He  had  put  down  everything — his  hand- 
some house,  carriages,  luxurious  appliances,  journeys,  dinners, 


240  THE  LAND  OF  COCKA  YNE 

and  English  clothes  from  Poole.  But  this  sacrifice  was  not 
enough,  for  the  cancer  that  gnawed  his  breast,  that  ate  into 
everything,  was  not  rooted  out.  He  still  desperately  played 
at  the  lottery,  being  taken  by  it  now  soul  and  body,  shutting 
his  eyes  to  the  storm  so  as  not  to  see  the  waves  coming  that 
would  drown  him.  Alongside  of  him  Don  Crescenzio,  with 
his  handsome,  serene  face  and  well-combed  chestnut  beard, 
had  the  traces  also  of  beginning  to  fall  off  in  prosperity. 
By  dint  of  being  in  contact  with  feverish  people,  just  as  if 
he  had  been  touching  too  hot  hands,  something  of  the 
gambling  fever  had  been  affecting  him,  and  through  the 
desperate  insistence  of  the  gamblers  he  had  got  to  giving 
them  credit.  How  could  he  resist  the  imploring  demands 
of  Ninetto  Costa,  Trifari  and  Colaneri's  pretexts,  that  had 
a  vague  threat  under  them,  the  Marquis  di  Formosa's  grand 
promises  ? — all  used  different  forms  of  supplication.  To  begin 
with,  he  let  them  have  credit  from  Friday  till  Tuesday,  the 
day  he  got  ready  the  State  profits ;  they,  doing  a  renewed 
miracle  every  week,  managed  to  give  him  what  they  owed, 
so  that  he  might  be  ready  on  Wednesday ;  but  at  last,  their 
resources  being  exhausted,  some  of  them  began  to  pay  a 
part  only,  or  not  to  pay  anything,  and  he  began  to  put  his 
own  money  into  it,  so  that  his  caution  money  should  not  be 
seized  by  the  State.  The  gamblers  dared  not  show  again 
till  they  had  got  money ;  then  they  paid  off  part  of  the  debt 
and  staked  what  they  had  over.  One  client  had  disappeared 
altogether — Baron  Lamarra,  son  of  the  mason  who  had  got 
to  be  a  contractor  and  a  rich  man.  He  owed  Don  Crescenzio 
more  than  two  thousand  francs,  and  when  Don  Crescenzio 
had  waited  for  him  two  or  three  weeks,  he  went  to  look  for 
him  at  his  house.  He  found  the  wife  in  a  furious  state. 
Baron  Lamarra  had  forged  her  signature  on  a  number  of 
bills,  and  she  had  to  pay  unless  she  wanted  to  be  a  forger's 
wife ;  but  she  was  already  trying  for  a  separation.  Baron 
Lamarra  had  fled  to  Isernia,  and  from  there  gave  not  a  sign 
of  life.  Don  Crescenzio  was  rudely  turned  away  from  the 
door — that  was  two  thousand  francs  and  more  lost !  He 
swore  not  to  give  more  credit  to  anyone  ;  but,  in  spite  of  the 
debtors  paying  him  a  little  now  and  then,  seven  or  eight 
thousand  francs  were  still  risked,  with  little  hope  of  getting 
them  back.  Eight  thousand  francs  was  the  exact  sum  of 
his  savings  for  several  years.  Besides,  he  could  not  press 
his  debtors  much — they  had  nothing  now  but  a  few  desperate 


THE  MEDIUM'S  IMPRISONMENT  241 

resources  that  only  came  to  light  from  a  wicked,  burning 
love  of  gambling.  He  now  took  a  lively  interest  in  their 
gambling,  and  was  anxious  for  them  to  win,  so  as  to  get  his 
savings  back,  to  recover  the  money  left  so  imprudently  in 
the  hands  of  these  vicious  fellows.  He  watched  the  gamblers 
so  that  they  should  not  go  to  play  elsewhere,  now  uneasy 
and  sick  himself  from  coming  in  contact  with  so  many 
infected  people.  It  was  for  this  reason  that  the  evening's 
mysterious  design  was  made  known  to  him ;  they  all  owed 
him  money,  and  could  hide  nothing  from  him.  And  in 
spite  of  a  secret  friendship,  we  would  almost  say  complicity, 
between  Don  Pasqualino,  the  medium,  and  him,  he  told 
him  nothing  about  the  mysterious  plan ;  by  his  silence  he 
seemed  to  approve  of  it. 

There  were  five  of  them  already  in  the  small  room,  seated 
round  the  table  in  different  thoughtful  or  rather  absent- 
minded  attitudes.  They  were  not  speaking :  some  held 
their  heads  down,  and  scribbled  with  their  nails  on  the  dusty 
table ;  others  looked  at  the  smoky  ceiling,  where  the  petro- 
leum lamp  threw  a  small  ring  of  light. 

'  Seven  hundred  thousand  francs  have  been  paid  out  in 
Rome,'  said  Don  Crescenzio  to  break  that  weighty  silence. 

'  Lucky  they  !  lucky  they  !'  two  or  three  cried  out,  with 
a  stirring  of  envy  against  the  lucky  Roman  winners. 

'  If  what  we  are  doing  is  successful,'  Colaneri  muttered 
darkly,  and  his  spectacles  gave  a  sad  twinkle,  '  the  Govern- 
ment will  pay  Naples  three  or  four  millions  of  francs.' 

1  We  must  succeed,'  Ninetto  Costa  retorted. 

'  The  urn  will  be  under  command  this  time,'  said  Marzano 
mysteriously. 

Now  came  renewed  knocking,  very  gently,  as  if  timidity 
had  enfeebled  the  hand  at  the  door.  Trifari  disappeared  to 
open  it,  after  asking  through  the  door  who  it  was ;  he  had 
suddenly  grown  suspicious.  The  answer  was  '  Friends  !' 
and  he  recognised  the  voice.  The  two  common  folk, 
Gaetano  the  glover  and  Michele  the  shoeblack,  came  in  ; 
they  took  off  their  caps,  saying  '  Good-evening  !'  and  stood 
at  the  entrance  of  the  room,  not  daring  to  sit  down  in  such 
good  company. 

Outside  the  wind  and  rain  grew  furious,  a  gutter  full 
of  water  emptied  into  the  court  with  a  loud  swish.  Now, 
under  the  window  -  frames,  a  stream  of  water  came  in 
at  the  cracks,  wetting  the  window-sills  and  trickling  to  the 

16 


242  THE  LAND  OF  COCKA  YNE 

ground,  the  closed  but  broken-ribbed  umbrellas  leaning 
against  the  walls  in  the  corners  of  the  room  dripped  moisture 
on  the  dusty  floor,  and  the  wet  shoes  made  mud-pies.  The 
men  sitting  down  never  moved :  they  kept  up  a  solemn 
stiffness  and  lugubrious  silence,  as  if  they  were  watching  a 
dead  person  and  were  overwhelmed  with  fatigue  and  the 
oppression  of  their  funereal  thoughts.  The  two  working 
men  standing,  one  lean,  colourless,  with  a  cutter-out's  round 
shoulders,  the  hair  thinned  already  on  the  forehead  and 
temples,  the  other  man  crooked  and  hunchbacked,  twisted 
like  a  corkscrew  and  old,  though  his  rugged,  sharp  face  was 
lively  still,  kept  silence  too,  waiting.  Only  Ninetto  Costa, 
to  give  himself  a  careless  look,  had  taken  out  an  old  pocket- 
book,  the  remnant  of  his  old  smartness,  and  was  writing 
ciphers  in  it  with  a  small  pencil,  wetting  the  point  in  his 
mouth.  But  they  were  fancy  figures,  and  his  hand  trembled 
a  little.  His  friends  said  it  was  from  his  fast  life  that  it 
shook.  Thus  they  spent  about  fifteen  long  slow  minutes 
that  lay  heavily  on  the  souls  of  all  those  waiting  there  to 
carry  out  their  mysterious  plan. 

'  What  bad  weather  we  are  having,'  said  Ninetto  Costa, 
passing  his  hand  over  his  forehead. 

'  The  sky  has  opened,'  Don  Crescenzio  remarked,  yawn- 
ing nervously. 

'  What  o'clock  is  it,  doctor,'  asked  old  Marzano  in  a 
trembling,  decrepit  little  voice. 

'  It  is  five  minutes  to  ten,'  said  the  doctor,  taking  out  an 
ugly  nickel  watch,  the  sort  that  cannot  be  pawned,  attached 
to  a  sordid  black  cord. 

'  What  hour  is  the  appointment  for  ?'  asked  Colaneri, 
trying  to  look  as  if  he  was  indifferent. 

'  It  was  to  have  been  ten  o'clock,  but  who  knows  whether 
he  will  come  ?'  the  doctor  replied,  lowering  his  voice,  putting 
all  his  uncertainty  and  doubt  into  what  he  said. 

'  Who  can  tell  ?'  said  Ninetto  Costa  profoundly.  A  long 
sigh  relieved  his  breast,  as  if  he  could  not  bear  the  weight 
that  bore  him  down. 

'  Are  you  feeling  ill  ?'  Colaneri  asked  him. 
*  I  wish  I  was  dead,'  muttered  the  stockbroker  desolately. 
Someone  shook  his  head,  sighing ;  another  one  had  the  same 
feeling,  evidently,  from  the  expression  of  his  face,  and  the  sad 
words  spread  through  the  damp  dirty  room  under  the  smoky 
lamp.  Then  for  a  little  the  summer  storm  calmed  down, 


THE  MEDIUM'S  IMPRISONMENT  243 

fewer  drops  rattled  on  the  window,  and  again  there  came  a 
great  silence.  Through  the  wall,  no  one  knew  from  where, 
like  a  slow  warning  voice,  a  solemn  clock  gave  ten  melan- 
choly strokes.  There  was  a  pause  between  each  stroke,  and 
it  cast  a  breath  of  fear  among  the  men  gathered  there  to  plot 
some  cruel  device  or  other. 

'  That  will  be  the  Spirit,'  said  Don  Crescenzio,  trying  to 
joke. 

'  Don't  let  us  jest,'  Trifari  said,  in  a  severely  reproving 
tone ;  '  we  are  occupied  about  serious  matters  here.' 

'  No  one  wants  to  make  jokes !'  Ninetto  Costa  said 
chidingly.  '  We  all  know  what  we  are  doing.' 

'  There  is  no  Judas  here,  is  there  ?'  said  the  doctor,  look- 
ing round  at  everyone. 

There  was  a  protesting  murmur,  but  it  was  feeble.  No, 
none  of  them  was  Judas,  nor  was  there  a  Christ  among 
them  ;  but  all  felt  vaguely  at  the  bottom  of  their  hearts  that 
they  were  going  to  carry  out  a  betrayal. 

'  No  one  is  Judas — no  one,'  cried  out  the  doctor  im- 
petuously. '  Swear  before  God  that  if  there  is  he  must 
make  a  bad  end.' 

'  Don't  swear,  don't  swear,'  said  old  Marzano,  quite 
frightened. 

Again  the  bell  rang  ;  they  all  caught  each  other's  eye 
suddenly,  pale  and  shivering ;  their  fault  rose  before  them. 
No  one  moved  to  open  the  door,  just  as  if  there  was  a 
serious  peril  behind  it. 

'  It  will  be  him,'  Colaneri  dared  to  say,  not  raising  his 
eyes. 

'  Perhaps  it  is,'  Costa  muttered,  twisting  his  pocket-book 
absently  in  his  hand. 

At  once  all  of  them  regretted  that  the  medium  was  out- 
side the  door.  The  same  shadow  of  furious  disappointment 
disfigured  their  faces,  hardening  them,  from  the  cruelty  of 
a  wicked  man  who  sees  his  prey  escaping.  The  furious 
instinct  that  sleeps  at  the  bottom  of  all  human  hearts,  urged 
by  long  unsatisfied  passion,  burst  forth  in  that  delirious  form 
that  vice  produces  in  young  and  old,  gentleman  and  work- 
ing man.  The  faces  were  reserved  and  hard,  strong  in  their 
ferocity.  Dr.  Trifari  went  forward  in  an  energetic  way  to 
open  the  door.  To  let  the  company  know  for  certain  that 
the  medium  was  there,  he  greeted  him  and  the  Marquis  di 
Formosa  at  once,  aloud. 

1 6 — 2 


244  THE  LAND  OF  COCKAYNE 

*  Good-evening,  good  evening,  Don  Pasqualino ;  we  are 
all  expecting  you.' 

He  stood  aside  to  let  them  go  in ;  the  men  in  the  room 
took  a  long  breath  with  fierce  joy  ;  there  was  no  danger  now 
that  the  medium  would  escape  them.  And  he  that  spoke 
every  night  with  spirits,  who  had  especial  communication 
by  favour  with  wandering  souls,  he  that  ought  to  have 
known  all  the  truth,  went  quietly  into  the  little  room  where 
the  meeting  was,  without  suspecting  anything.  He  cast,  as 
usual,  an  oblique  glance  all  round,  but  the  Cabalists'  faces 
said  nothing  new  to  him.  They  had  the  pallor,  contortions, 
and  feverish  excitement  usual  on  Friday  evening,  but  he 
saw  nothing  else.  Only  the  Marquis  di  Formosa,  who  was 
coming  in  with  him,  shivered  two  or  three  times ;  it  almost 
looked  as  if  he  wanted  to  turn  back.  But  the  Marquis  had 
been  very  excitable  for  some  time  past.  He  stammered  in 
speaking,  his  noble  countenance  was  now  degraded  by 
traces  of  his  ignoble  passion,  he  was  badly  dressed  and 
untidy,  had  dirty  shoes  and  a  frayed  collar,  and  his  ill- 
shaved  beard  was  disgusting  and  pitiable.  He  had  got  so 
excitable  since  he  no  longer  had  any  money,  since  his 
daughter's  engagement  to  Dr.  Amati.  The  medium  could 
get  no  more  money  out  of  him,  so  avoided  him,  and  only 
saw  him  at  the  Friday  evening  meetings  in  Nardones  Road. 
But  that  evening  the  intimacy  had  begun  again,  the 
Marquis  had  looked  everywhere  for  the  medium,  and  during 
the  day  had  given  him  fifty  francs,  making  an  appointment 
for  the  evening  at  ten  o'clock  ;  indeed,  he  had  anxiously 
insisted  on  this  appointment,  and  the  medium  had  put  it 
down  to  a  disappointed  gambler's  eagerness  to  get  lottery 
numbers. 

The  Marquis's  manner  on  the  way  to  the  office  had  been 
peculiar,  still,  Don  Pasqualino  was  accustomed  to  gamblers' 
eccentricities,  and  took  no  notice  of  it.  He  went  to  sit  at 
his  usual  place  every  week  near  the  table,  putting  one  hand 
over  his  eyes  to  shelter  them  from  the  glare  of  the  lamp. 
Around  the  deep  silence  still  held,  broken  by  a  sigh  now  and 
then,  and  on  looking  at  all  their  pallid,  dumb,  excited  faces 
the  medium  felt  his  first  suspicion.  He  tried  to  do  his 
usual  fantastic  humbugging  work. 

'  It  rains,  but  the  sun  will  come  out  at  midnight.' 
'  That  is  idle  chatter,'  shouted  Trifari,  bursting  into  an 
ironical  laugh. 


THE  MEDIUM'S  IMPRISONMENT  245 

The  others  around  muttered  sneeringly.  Now  there  was 
no  longer  any  belief  in  Don  Pasqualino's  mysterious  words. 
This  want  of  faith  stood  out  so  plainly  that  the  medium  drew 
back  as  if  he  wanted  to  parry  an  attack.  But  he  tried  again, 
thinking  he  could  profit  as  usual  from  the  feverish  imagina- 
tions of  the  Cabalists  by  striking  a  sympathetic  chord. 

'  It  rains,  the  sun  will  come  out  at  midnight,  but  he  who 
wears  the  Virgin's  scapulary  does  not  get  wet.' 

'  Don  Pasqualino,  you  are  joking,'  the  glove-cutter  said 
ironically.  The  medium  darted  a  look  of  rage  at  him. 
'  You  need  not  look  at  me  as  if  you  wanted  to  eat  me,  Don 
Pasqualino.  Asking  the  gentlemen's  pardon,  you  are  try- 
ing to  make  fools  of  us,  and  we  are  not  the  people  to 
allow  it.' 

'  My  lord,  make  that  ass  hold  his  tongue,'  muttered  the 
medium,  making  a  scornful  gesture. 

'  He  is  not  such  an  ass  after  all,  Don  Pasqualino,'  said 
Formosa,  keeping  down  his  excitement  with  difficulty. 

'  What  do  you  mean,  my  lord  ?'  asked  Don  Pasqualino 
sharply,  getting  up  to  go  away  ;  but  Trifari,  who  had  never 
left  the  medium's  neighbourhood,  put  a  hand  on  his  shoulder 
without  speaking,  and  obliged  him  to  sit  down  again.  The 
medium  sank  his  head  on  his  breast  a  minute  to  think  it  over, 
and  gazed  sideways  at  the  door. 

'  Sit  still,  Don  Pasqualino,'  said  Formosa  slowly,  '  we 
have  a  lot  to  talk  about  here." 

A  slightly  agonized  expression  went  over  the  caller-up  of 
spirits'  face.  Once  more  looking  round  the  company,  he  only 
saw  hard,  anxious  faces,  determined  on  success.  He  under- 
stood now  confusedly. 

'  Gaetano  the  glover  is  not  an  ass  for  saying  you  are 
making  fools  of  us.  What  you  have  been  doing  for  three 
years  past  looks  like  a  trick.  For  three  years,  you  see,  you 
have  gone  on  saying  the  most  disjointed  things  with  the 
excuse  that  the  spirits  said  these  things  to  you.  For  three 
years  you  have  made  us  stake  the  very  bones  of  our  necks 
upon  this  nonsense  of  yours ;  every  one  of  us  has  not  only 
gained  nothing,  but  thrown  his  whole  means  away,  from 
following  your  rubbish,  and  we  are  full  of  woes,  some  of 
them  incurable.  What  sort  of  a  conscience  have  you  ?  We 
are  ruined  !' 

'  Yes,  we  are  ruined — ruined !'  shouted  a  chorus  of  agonized 
voices. 


246  THE  LAND  OF  COCK  A  YNE 

The  speaker  with  spirits  had  often  heard  these  lamenta- 
tions, especially  lately ;  but  faith  had  come  again  into  the 
souls  of  his  followers.  Now,  he  understood  they  no  longer 
believed  in  him.  Still,  hiding  his  fear,  he  tried  to  brazen 
it  out. 

'  It  is  not  my  fault,  it  is  your  want  of  faith.' 

'  Rubbish !'  the  old  lord  shouted  in  a  rage,  whilst  the 
others  stormed  against  the  medium  for  repeating  to  them 
his  invariable  reason  to  account  for  disappointment.  '  Rub- 
bish !  how  can  we  have  failed  in  faith  when  we  have  be- 
lieved in  you  as  in  Jesus  Christ  ?  How  can  you  say  faith 
is  wanting  when,  to  reward  your  overflow  of  chatter,  we 
have  paid  through  the  nose  ?  You  have  pocketed  thousands 
of  francs  in  these  three  years.  Don't  deny  it.  Have  we  no 
faith  ?  We,  who  have  had  Masses,  prayers,  and  rosaries 
said  ;  we,  who  have  knelt  and  beat  our  breasts,  asking  the 
Lord's  favour — have  we  no  faith  ?  Why,  we  must  have 
had  it !  How  can  you  account  otherwise  for  the  squander- 
ing of  money,  for  the  way  we  wasted  our  own  means  and  our 
families',  thus  causing  such  unhappiness  that  it  would  have 
been  nothing  but  a  crime  if  we  had  not  believed  in  you  ?  You 
say  we  have  no  faith  ;  you  have  been  our  God  for  three 
years,  you  have  deceived  us,  and  we  never  said  anything, 
but  went  on  believing  in  you  after  you  had  taken  every 
penny  from  us.' 

'  Everything — you  have  taken  everything  !'  shouted  the 
company. 

'  You  insult  me,  that  is  enough,'  said  the  medium,  getting 
up  resolutely.  '  I  am  going  away.  Good-evening.' 

'  You  do  not  leave  this  till  we  get  satisfaction  !'  the 
Marquis  di  Formosa  cried  out.  '  Is  it  not  the  case  that  he 
will  not  get  out  of  this  till  he  does  ?'  he  asked  the  assembled 
Cabalists. 

'  No,  no,  no !'  the  company  of  these  cruel  madmen  shouted 
ferociously. 

The  medium  understood,  a  deadly  hue  spread  over  his 
pallid  cheeks,  his  frightened  glance  wandered  round  in  a 
desperate  attempt  to  fly  ;  but  the  fierce  gamblers  had  got 
up  and  made  a  circle  round  him.  Some  of  them  were  very 
pale,  as  if  they  were  keeping  down  strong  emotion,  the 
others  were  red  with  rage.  In  all  their  eyes  the  medium 
read  the  same  implacable  cruelty. 

'  I  wish  to  go   away,'  he   said  in  a  whisper,  with  that 


THE  MEDIUM'S  IMPRISONMENT  247 

hoarse  tone  that  gave  such  a  mysterious  attraction  to  his 
voice. 

'  None  of  us  would  wish  to  detain  you,'  said  the  Marquis 
di  Formosa  with  ironical  deference,  '  if  we  had  not  need  of 
you.  If  you  do  not  give  us  lottery  numbers,  you  don't  leave 
this  !'  he  ended  up  by  shouting  in  a  fit  of  fury. 

'  Lottery  numbers,  lottery  numbers  !'  hissed  Colaneri's 
thin  voice. 

'  If  not,  you  don't  get  out  of  this !'  shrieked  Ninetto 
Costa. 

4  Either  give  numbers,  or  you  stay  here !'  thundered  Dr. 
Trifari. 

'  An  end  to  your  fooling ;  give  us  the  real  tip  for  the 
lottery,'  said  Gaetano,  grinding  his  teeth. 

'  Don  Pasqualino,  make  up  your  mind  that  those  gentle- 
men won't  let  you  go  away  till  you  have  given  them  lottery 
numbers — make  up  your  mind  to  it,'  Don  Crescenzio  re- 
marked wisely.  He  wished  to  pretend  he  was  not  interested 
in  the  question. 

'  Next  week.  I  promise  them  to  you  then  ;  now  I  have 
not  got  them,  I  swear  it  upon  the  Virgin !'  stammered  the 
medium,  turning  his  eyes  to  heaven  despairingly. 

'  What  good  is  next  week  ?'  all  yelled  out.  '  It  must  be 
to-night,  for  to-morrow — quick!' 

'  I  have  not  got  them,  I  have  not  got  them,'  he  stammered 
again,  shaking  his  head. 

'  You  must  give  them.  We  will  make  you  give  them,' 
the  Marquis  roared.  '  We  can  do  no  more.  Either  we  win 
this  week,  or  we  are  ruined.  Don  Pasqualino,  we  have 
waited  long  enough  ;  we  have  believed  too  much  ;  you  have 
treated  us  unfairly.  The  spirit  tells  you  the  real  figures, 
you  know  them,  you  always  have  known  them ;  but  you 
went  on  mocking  at  us,  telling  us  silly  things.  We  can't 
wait  till  next  week ;  before  that  we  may  die,  or  see  someone 
else  die,  or  go  to  the  galleys.  This  evening  or  to-morrow 
we  must  have  the  true  numbers.  You  understand  ?' 

'The  true — the  true  ones  !'  hissed  Colaneri. 

'  Do  not  go  on  talking  nonsense  ;  it  is  past  the  time  for 
that  now,'  shouted  Ninetto  Costa,  with  the  greatest  indigna- 
tion. 

Still,  in  spite  of  feeling  conquered  and  taken  hostage  to 
the  unreasonable  fury  that  he  had  set  on  fire  himself,  the 
medium  tried  to  fight  on. 


248  THE  LAND  OF  COCKA  YNE 

'  The  spirit  does  not  give  numbers  by  force,'  he  slowly 
announced.  '  You  have  offended  him.  He  will  not  speak 
to  me  again.' 

'  Lies — you  are  telling  lies  !  A  hundred — a  thousand 
times  you  have  told  us  that  the  spirit  obeys  you,  that  you 
do  what  you  like  with  him,'  retorted  the  Marquis.  '  A 
hundred  thousand  times  you  have  told  us  that  the  urn  is 
under  orders.  Tell  the  truth ;  it  will  be  best  for  you,  I 
assure  you.  You  are  at  a  bad  pass,  Don  Pasqualino ;  the 
spirit  ought  to  help  you.  Our  patience  is  exhausted,  so  is 
our  money,  and  other  people's,  too.  The  spirit  must  give 
you  the  right  numbers.' 

Then  the  medium  stood  silent  for  a  little,  as  if  he  was 
collecting  himself,  his  eyes  turned  up  showing  the  whites. 
Everyone  looked  at  him,  but  coldly,  being  accustomed  to 
these  antics  of  his. 

'  In  a  little  the  camellias  will  flower,'  he  said  suddenly, 
trembling  all  over. 

But  not  one  of  the  company  troubled  himself  about  this 
mystic  giving  out  of  lottery  numbers.  Dr.  Trifari,  who 
always  carried  a  book  of  dreams  in  his  pocket,  did  not  even 
take  out  the  torn  book  to  see  what  figures  corresponded 
to  the  camellias. 

'  In  a  little  the  camellias  will  flower  by  the  sea,  on  the 
mountain,'  repeated  the  medium,  still  trembling. 

No  one  stirred. 

'  In  a  little  the  camellias  will  flower  by  the  sea,  on  the 
mountain,'  he  repeated  the  third  time,  trembling  with 
anxiety,  looking  his  persecutors  in  the  face. 

An  incredulous  snigger  answered  him. 

'  But  what  do  you  want  from  me  ?'  he  cried  out,  with  a 
gasp  of  fear. 

'  The  real  numbers,'  said  Formosa  coldly.  '  We  don't 
believe  these  that  you  are  telling  us  can  be  the  right  ones  ; 
that  is  to  say,  just  on  the  chance  we  will  play  the  numbers 
corresponding  to  the  mountain,  the  sea-coast,  and  flowering 
camellias.  But  the  real  figures  must  be  different.  While 
waiting  for  them,  we  will  play  these  three,  but  we  will  keep 
you  shut  up  here  in  the  meanwhile.' 

'  Until  when  ?'  he  asked  hurriedly. 

'  Until  your  numbers  come  out,'  retorted  the  Marquis 
harshly. 

'  Oh,  God !'  said  the  medium  softly  under  his  breath. 


THE  MEDIUM'S  IMPRISONMENT  249 

'  You  understand,  Don  Pasqualino,  these  gentlemen  wish 
to  have  a  guarantee,  and  they  intend  to  keep  you  as  a  pawn,' 
the  lottery- banker  explained,  trying  to  make  out  that  shut- 
ting him  up  was  lawful.  '  What  does  it  signify  to  you  ? 
What  trouble  is  it  to  tell  the  truth  ?  If  you  have  kept  them 
in  error  up  till  now,  it  is  time  to  speak  seriously,  Don  Pas- 
qualino. These  gentlemen  have  a  right  to  be  enraged,  and 
I  know  it.  Speak,  Don  Pasqualino,  send  us  off  satisfied. 
You  will  stay  here  till  to-morrow  at  five.  When  the  lottery 
drawing  is  over,  we  will  come  and  take  you  in  a  carriage 
for  an  airing.  Come,  come  ;  do  what  you  ought  to  do.' 

'  I  can't  do  it,'  said  the  medium,  opening  out  his  arms. 

'  Don't  tell  lies.  You  can,  but  you  won't.  The  spirits 
obey  you,'  said  Colaneri,  letting  himself  go  in  a  passion  of 
rage. 

'  Tell  them  this  evening ;  it  will  be  better  for  you,'  Gaet- 
ano  the  glover  muttered  in  an  ill-natured  tone. 

'  Get  rid  of  this  obstinacy,'  Ninetto  Costa  advised  in  a 
brotherly  way. 

'  Give  us  the  truth — the  truth, 'stammered  the  old  lawyer, 
Marzano. 

'  I  can't  tell  you,'  the  medium  still  said,  looking  at  the 
doors  and  windows. 

Then  the  Cabalists,  on  a  sign  from  the  Marquis  di  For- 
mosa, gathered  in  the  window  recess.  Only  Trifari  stayed 
beside  the  medium.  With  a  threatening,  cruel  face  he  put 
his  fat,  hairy  hand  on  his  shoulder.  They  spoke  to  each 
other  a  long  time,  and  disputed  in  a  ring,  all  heads  close 
together ;  then,  having  decided,  they  turned  round. 

'  These  gentlemen  say  they  are  firmly  resolved — as  they 
have  a  right  to  be — to  get  the  real  lottery  numbers,  after 
having  made  so  many  sacrifices,'  the  Marquis  di  Formosa 
said  coldly,  '  and  that  therefore  Don  Pasqualino  will  remain 
shut  up  here  until  he  makes  up  his  mind  to  satisfy  our 
just  demands.  He  cannot  go  away  from  here;  besides, 
Dr.  Trifari,  who  is  afraid  of  nothing,  will  stay  with  Don 
Pasqualino.  To  make  a  noise  would  be  useless,  as  the 
neighbours  would  not  hear  ;  and  if  by  chance  Don  Pasqua- 
lino wished  to  right  himself  by  going  to  law,  we  have  an 
action  ready  for  him  as  a  cheat,  with  witnesses  and  docu- 
ments enough  to  send  twenty  mediums  to  prison.  It  is 
better,  therefore,  to  bow  your  head  this  time,  and  try  to  get 
off  by  giving  the  right  numbers.  We  are  quite  decided. 


25o  THE  LAND  OF  COCKA  YNE 

Until  Don  Pasqualino  allows  us  to  win,  he  will  not  get  out ; 
Dr.  Trifari  will  sacrifice  himself  to  keep  him  company.  In 
that  other  room  there  is  sleeping  accommodation  for  two 
and  food  for  several  days.  Between  to-night  and  to-morrow 
one  of  us  by  turns  will  come  every  four  hours  to  see  if  he 
has  made  up  his  mind.  We  hope  he  will  do  so  soon.' 

'  You  are  trying  to  kill  me,'  said  the  medium  with  angelic 
resignation. 

4  You  can  free  yourself  when  you  choose.  We  wish  you 
good-night,'  the  Marquis  ended  up  with,  implacably. 

And  the  seven  wicked  Cabalists  passed  in  front  of  the 
medium,  wishing  him  good-night  ironically.  The  medium 
stood  there  near  the  table,  his  hand  lightly  placed  on  the 
wooden  surface,  with  a  tired,  suffering  expression  on  his 
face.  He  looked  now  at  one,  then  at  another  of  the  Cabal- 
ists, as  if  he  were  questioning  their  faces  to  see  if  any  of 
them  were  more  civil,  and  would  say  a  word  of  release  to 
him.  But  sad  delusions  had  hardened  these  men's  hearts  ; 
the  excitement  prevented  them  from  understanding  they 
were  committing  a  crime.  They  went  in  front  of  the 
medium,  greeting  him,  saying  a  cold  phrase  or  word  of  con- 
dolence without  heeding  his  suffering  expression,  his  entreat- 
ing eyes. 

'  Good-night,  Don  Pasqualino.  God  enlighten  you  !'  said 
old  Marzano,  shaking  his  head. 

'  We  ask  too  much  of  God,'  the  medium  answered  in  a 
very  melancholy  voice. 

'  Good-night ;  quiet  sleep,'  the  glover  ironically  wished 
him.  His  words,  countenance,  and  voice  had  all  become 
cutting. 

'  So  I  wish  you,'  the  medium  answered  darkly,  lowering 
his  eyelids  to  deaden  the  cruel  flash  of  revenge  that  shone 
in  his  eyes. 

'  Good-night,  good-night,  Don  Pasqualino,'  Ninetto  Costa 
muttered  rather  regretfully;  his  frivolous  nature  was  so 
opposed  to  tragedy.  '  We  will  soon  meet  each  other 
again.' 

'  Of  course,'  the  man  of  the  spirits  muttered  with  a  slight 
grin. 

'  Good-night,'  Michele  the  shoeblack  ventured  to  remark. 
He  was  a  keen  accomplice  in  that  gentlemanly  plot,  and 
thought  it  made  a  gentleman  of  him  to  be  mixed  up  in  it. 
'  Good-night ;  keep  in  good  health.' 


THE  MEDIUM'S  IMPRISONMENT  251 

The  medium  did  not  answer  him  even.  He  scorned  to 
cast  a  glance  at  the  deformity,  who  belonged  to  the  common 
folk  he  came  from  himself,  out  of  whom  he  could  never 
get  any  money. 

'  Pasqualino,  do  you  intend  to  give  these  true  numbers  ?' 
asked  Colaneri,  passing  in  front  of  him,  still  wild  with 
rage. 

'  I  cannot  give  them  like  this,  being  bullied  into  it.' 

'  You  are  joking.  We  are  all  your  friends  here,'  squeaked 
the  Professor.  '  Do  as  you  like.  Good-night.' 

'  Good-night ;  the  Madonna  go  with  you,'  the  medium 
muttered  piously,  intensifying  the  mysticism  of  his  voice. 

'  Dear  Don  Pasqualino,  come,  be  good-natured  before  we 
go,'  said  the  Marquis  di  Formosa  with  sudden  affability. 
'  Give  us  real  numbers,  and  your  prison  will  last  only  till 
to-morrow  evening  at  five  o'clock.' 

'  I  know  nothing,'  said  the  medium,  darting  a  look  of 
hatred  at  the  Marquis,  since  it  was  the  noble  lord  who  had 
brought  him  to  this  bad  pass. 

They  joined  each  other  at  the  door  to  go  out,  leaving  him 
alone  with  Dr.  Trifari,  who  went  backwards  and  forwards 
quietly  and  coldly  from  the  room  alongside,  with  that  icy 
determination  born  villains  have  in  carrying  out  a  misdeed. 
Up  till  then  the  medium,  except  for  a  shadow  crossing  his 
face,  leaving  its  traces  of  boredom  and  sorrow,  but  for  a 
humble,  beseeching  glance,  had  given  tokens  of  sufficient 
courage ;  but  when  he  saw  the  others  were  going  away, 
when  he  felt  he  was  to  be  left  alone  with  Dr.  Trifari  for  long 
hours,  days,  and  weeks,  perhaps,  all  his  courage  fell,  the 
cowardice  of  an  imprisoned  man  rose  up,  and,  stretching 
out  his  arms,  he  called  out : 

'  Don't  go  away  !  don't  go  away  !' 

At  that  agonized  cry  the  accomplices  in  that  imprison- 
ment stood  still ;  their  faces,  set  like  stern  judges  till  then, 
got  suddenly  pale.  That  was  the  only  moment  of  the 
whole  gloomy  evening  they  realized  they  were  condemn- 
ing a  human  creature,  a  fellow-Christian,  a  man  like  them- 
selves, to  a  frightful  punishment.  It  was  the  only  moment 
they  saw  the  whole  extent  of  what  they  were  doing  in  its 
legal  and  moral  bearings.  But  the  demon  of  gain  had  taken 
possession  of  them,  soul  and  body,  completely.  Every  one 
of  them,  turning  back,  surrounded  the  medium,  still  asking 
him  for  lottery  numbers,  certain  real  numbers,  that  he  knew, 


252  THE  LAND  OF  COCKA  YNE 

and  up  till  then  would  not  give  them.  Then,  choking  with 
emotion,  understanding  they  were  turning  the  weapons 
against  him  that  he  had  wounded  them  with,  the  man  who 
had  gradually  brought  the  waves  of  a  slow  shipwreck  over 
them,  who  had  taken  their  money  and  their  souls,  when 
confronted  with  that  persistent,  malignant  cruelty  that 
nothing  could  soften,  that  demon  his  own  voice  had  called 
up,  that  real  evil  spirit  he  had  truly  got  in  communication 
with,  the  cowardly  medium  felt  a  tremendous  fear,  and 
began  to  sob  like  a  child.  The  others,  alarmed  and  dis- 
turbed, gazed  at  him  ;  but  the  demon  was  stronger  than  all 
their  wills  together.  The  supreme  hour  of  their  life  had 
come  for  old  and  young,  gentlemen  and  working  men — the 
tragic  hour  when  nothing  can  prevent  a  tragedy,  when 
everything  pushes  men  forward  to  a  tragedy. 

Hearing  the  medium  weep  like  a  child,  drying  his  tears 
with  a  flaming,  torn  pocket-handkerchief,  none  of  them  felt 
pity.  All  felt  the  warmer,  keener  desire  for  lottery  numbers 
to  save  them  from  the  ruin  that  threatened  them.  They 
left  him,  to  weep  meanly,  like  a  frightened  fool ;  one  by  one, 
making  no  noise,  they  went  slowly  from  that  house  that  had 
become  a  prison.  He,  still  going  on  sobbing,  stretched  his 
ears,  and  heard  the  door  shut  dolefully,  with  that  sort  of 
noise  that  gives  echoes  in  the  soul.  Trifari,  standing  behind 
the  door,  went  putting  up  chains  and  bolts,  shutting  himself 
up  with  the  new  prisoner,  with  no  fear  either  of  the  man 
or  of  the  spirits  he  might  evoke.  The  hairy  red  face,  when 
it  showed  in  the  shining  circle  of  the  lamp,  had  some- 
thing animal  in  it;  it  showed  cruelty  and  obstinacy  in 
cruelty.  On  coming  in  again,  the  doctor  breathed  in  a 
relieved  way.  He  looked  around,  as  if  the  departure  of  the 
Cabalists,  his  friends  who  had  deputed  him  to  be  gaoler, 
pleased  him.  Now  he  still  went  and  came  from  the  next 
room,  carrying  backwards  and  forwards  all  sorts  of  things. 
TJien  he  came  back  from  the  bedroom,  having  changed  his 
clothes ;  he  had  put  on  an  old  jacket  instead  of  his  frock- 
coat.  The  medium  followed  all  his  gaoler's  movements 
closely,  for,  like  all  prisoners,  he  studied  his  only  companion 
with  profound  observation.  At  one  point  they  exchanged  a 
cold,  hard  glare  as  from  prisoner  to  turnkey. 

'  Do  you  want  to  smoke  ?'  the  doctor  asked  from  a  corner 
of  the  room. 

'  I  don't  smoke,'  the  medium  answered  sulkily. 


THE  MEDIUM'S  IMPRISONMENT  253 

'  Won't  you  sit  down  ?'  Trifari  asked  the  medium  in  a 
whisper. 

'Thank  you,  I  will,1  he  replied,  letting  himself  down  on  a 
chair. 

'  Do  you  wish  to  sleep  ?' 

'  No,  thank  you.' 

The  doctor  sat  down,  too,  then,  beside  the  table,  putting 
one  hand  over  his  eyes  as  if  to  shield  them  from  the  light. 
There  was  deep,  nocturnal  silence.  Outside  the  rain  had 
ended ;  inside  the  long,  gloomy  vigil  began. 


CHAPTER  XV 

SACRILEGE — LOVE'S    DREAM    FLED 

BIANCA  MARIA  CAVALCANTI  and  Antonio  Amati's  love  for 
each  other  had  got  stronger  and  sadder.  Indeed,  the  secret 
sorrow  gave  some  attractive  flavour  of  tears  to  their  passion ; 
what  had  been  an  idyll  between  the  innocent  pious  girl  of 
twenty  and  the  man  of  forty  had  acquired  dramatic  force 
and  depth.  Innocently,  with  the  trustingness  of  hearts  that 
love  for  the  first  time,  they  had  dreamt  of  living,  spending 
their  life  together,  holding  each  other  by  the  hand  as 
they  went  on  the  long  road;  but  Formosa's  hostile  face 
rose  continually  between  them.  In  that  troubled  summer 
which  had  unhinged  the  Marquis  di  Formosa's  mind  more, 
the  position  of  the  lovers  had  gone  on  getting  worse,  together 
with  the  old  lord's  increasing  moroseness.  People  cannot 
live  with  impunity  alongside  of  physical  or  moral  infirmities, 
even  if  they  are  heroic  or  indifferent ;  and  neither  Bianca 
Maria  nor  Antonio  Amati  was  selfish  or  indifferent.  They 
did  not  manage  to  shut  themselves  from  moral  contact  with 
Carlo  Cavalcanti,  nor  to  give  themselves  up  entirely  to  their 
deep  love.  Moral  as  well  as  physical  fevers  fill  the  air 
with  miasma ;  there  is  an  infectious  warmth  that  sets  the 
atmospheric  elements  out  of  balance  and  poisons  the  air 
subtly  and  heavily,  so  that  the  healthiest  have  to  bend  their 
heads,  feeling  oppressed  and  suffocated.  They  were  good, 
honest,  and  pitiful,  their  souls  were  purely  filled  with  love, 
so  that  no  acid,  however  powerful,  could  corrode  the  noble 
metal ;  but  the  air  around  was  poisoned  by  Carlo  Caval- 
canti's  moral  disease,  and  they  could  hardly  exist  now  in 
that  atmosphere. 

It  was  an  unhealthy  summer.  Whatever  means  of  per- 
suasion Dr.  Amati  used,  he  could  not  get  Carlo  Cavalcanti 
to  send  his  sickly  daughter  to  the  country.  Stronger  than 
any  argument  or  anger  was  the  obstinacy  of  the  hardened 
gambler ;  he  looked  on  his  daughter  as  a  spiritual  source  of 


SACRILEGE— LOVES  DREAM  FLED  255 

lottery  numbers,  and  put  her  to  torture,  so  that  she  might 
fall  into  visions  again,  and  he  with  his  disturbed  brain,  like 
an  old  fool,  tried  to  force  her  to  see.  When  the  doctor,  in 
despair  and  anger,  insisted  she  must  go  to  the  country,  the 
Marquis,  who  felt  no  shame  now  in  asking  money  from 
him,  promising  always  to  give  it  back,  took  up  a  tone  of 
offended  pride,  and  the  doctor,  intimidated  at  bottom  by  the 
old  lord's  grand  airs,  gave  up  insisting,  and  put  off  the 
attack  till  another  time.  Once  he  very  nearly  got  Carlo 
Cavalcanti  to  go  away  too,  with  his  daughter,  by  describing 
to  him  the  healthy  freshness  of  this  out-of-the-way  country 
place,  and  the  old  noble  almost  got  ready  to  start.  But  he 
must  have  made  inquiries,  and  found  out  that  in  that  small 
village  there  was  no  lottery  shop  ;  it  was  necessary  to  write 
or  telegraph  to  Campobasso.  Even  the  telegraph  -  office 
was  in  another  village ;  there  were  endless  difficulties  in 
playing  a  ticket,  and  he  must  have  felt  at  that  time  more 
than  ever  chained  to  Naples,  to  the  company  of  gamblers, 
and  to  Don  Crescenzio's  lottery  shop.  He  bluntly  refused 
to  go,  without  giving  any  reason.  The  girl  bent  her  head 
before  his  decision ;  she  had  always  obeyed  him,  and  she 
could  not  rebel.  Amati  trembled  with  rage,  angry  with  her 
as  well ;  but  at  once  a  great  pity  subdued  him.  The  poor, 
innocent,  suffering  girl  was  wasting  away;  she  could  not 
bear  that  her  lover  should  refuse  to  submit.  She  gazed  at 
him  so  earnestly  with  astonished  sad  eyes  that  he  forgave 
her  for  her  filial  submission. 

It  was  an  unhealthy  summer.  Each  year  the  doctor  had 
kept  up  the  attentive  habit  of  spending  a  month  with  his 
mother,  the  good  old  peasant  woman  in  the  country,  doing 
the  simplest  kinds  of  work — resting,  not  reading,  neither 
calling  nor  seeing  visitors,  keeping  always  with  his  mother, 
speaking  the  peasant's  dialect  again,  building  up  his  physical 
and  moral  health  by  rustic  habits.  Well,  that  year,  tied  by 
love's  chain,  he  put  off  his  start  from  day  to  day  to  Molise, 
feeling  all  the  loss  of  putting  it  off,  growing  pale  every  time 
a  letter  came  from  his  mother,  dictated  by  her  to  the  estate 
agent — letters  that  were  full  of  melancholy  summonses  to 
come  to  her.  The  doctor  stayed  on  in  Naples,  displeased 
with  himself  and  others,  worshipping  Bianca  Maria,  hating 
the  Marquis.  The  poor  thing's  dreams  were  always  dis- 
turbed by  her  father's  delusions  ;  she  fell  off  daily  in  health, 
and  the  doctor  could  do  nothing  to  cure  her.  All  he  could 


256  THE  LAND  OF  COCKA  YNE 

manage  was  that,  by  offering  his  carriage,  Bianca  Maria 
should  take  long  drives  by  the  sea  on  the  gentle  slopes  that 
lovingly  enclose  Naples.  Old  Margherita  went  with  her, 
and  sometimes  the  doctor  also  dared  to  go  out  with  the 
young  girl.  When  he  heard  of  such  a  thing,  the  Marquis 
di  Formosa  frowned,  the  old  family  blood  boiled  ;  he  felt 
inclined  to  punish  the  bold  plebeian,  who  behaved  as  if  he 
was  affianced  to  the  high-born  maiden.  But  he  held  his 
tongue ;  he  had  had  so  many  money  transactions  with 
Amati,  and  went  on  having  them  every  day,  keeping  up  still 
more  pride,  decorum,  and  honour  with  it.  Besides,  every- 
one said,  with  a  compassionate  smile,  that  Dr.  Amati  would 
soon  marry  the  Marchesina  Cavalcanti,  as  if  the  doctor 
would  be  doing  a  kindly  act  to  marry  her. 

Up  there,  in  green  Capodimonte  woods,  with  its  hundred- 
year-old  trees,  its  fields  carpeted  with  flowers,  down  there 
along  the  charming  Posillipo  Road,  that  goes  down  to  the 
vapoury  Flegrei  fields,  the  lovers'  idyll  began  again  before 
Nature,  ever  lovely  in  Naples,  with  its  gentle  lines  and 
colouring.  The  maiden's  delicate,  bloodless  cheeks,  with 
the  sun  and  the  open  air  going  round  her  head,  got  coloured 
by  a  thin  pink  flush,  as  if  her  impoverished  blood  was 
moving  quicker.  She  smiled  sometimes,  and  threw  back 
her  head  to  drink  in  the  pure  air  ;  she  managed  to  laugh, 
showing  white  teeth  and  pinky  gums  that  anaemia  had 
made  colourless.  Then  the  doctor,  become  a  boy  again, 
chattered  and  laughed  with  her,  looking  into  her  eyes,  taking 
her  by  the  hand,  sometimes  loading  her  with  field  flowers. 
They  forgot  old  Margherita,  who  forgot  them,  as  she  sat  on 
the  grass  stupefied  by  the  free  summer  air,  as  old  people  are 
apt  to  be ;  but  they  were  so  loving  and  modest  with  it,  that 
the  forgetfulness  was  no  sin.  The  maiden  went  back  to  the 
house  intoxicated  with  light,  sun,  and  love,  her  hands  full 
of  flowers,  her  pink  nostrils  dilated  fully  to  breathe  in  the 
pure  air  still ;  but  as  the  carriage  got  into  the  city  streets 
her  youthful  smile  died  away,  and  when  they  went  under 
the  Rossi  Palace  entrance  she  bent  her  diminished  head. 

1  What  is  the  matter  with  you  ?'  the  doctor  asked  her 
anxiously. 

'  It  is  nothing,'  she  replied,  the  great  answer  of  timid, 
distracted  women  who  hide  their  fears. 

She  went  up  to  her  bare,  sad  room  very  slowly,  but  still 
had  a  smile  for  Antonio  Amati  on  the  threshold.  She  went 


SACRILEGE— LOVE'S  DREAM  FLED  257 

into  the  house  with  a  resolute  look,  as  if  she  were  keeping 
down  alarm  or  distaste.  Often  Carlo  Cavalcanti  came  to 
meet  her,  coldly  angry,  his  face  distorted  by  his  bad  hours 
of  passion.  She  shivered,  while  his  very  look  made  the 
blood  fly  from  her  face,  and  chased  away  the  whole  idyll  of 
love,  took  away  all  the  sweetness  from  the  sun  and  from 
love.  When  she  got  into  the  drawing-room,  she  put  her 
big  bundle  of  flowers  down  on  a  corner  of  the  table.  The 
old  lord  questioned  her  anxiously  and  greedily  about  what 
road  she  had  gone  and  what  she  had  seen.  Bianca  answered 
feebly  in  short  phrases,  turning  her  head  away  ;  but  he 
persisted — he  wanted  to  know  all  she  had  seen.  Nowa- 
days, everything  his  daughter  saw  rilled  him  with  uncer- 
tainties, curiosity,  and  sorrow  ;  he  tried  continually  to  find 
out  in  whatever  she  saw  a  mystic  source  of  the  cipher 
of  lottery  numbers.  He  now  considered  she  was  a  medium, 
a  much  better  one  than  Don  Pasqualino,  because  she  was  a 
woman,  an  innocent  maiden,  and  unconscious  of  her  powers. 
She  did  not  know  it,  but  she  was  a  medium.  Had  she  not 
seen  the  spirit  that  fatal  night  weeping  and  hailing  her  ? 
He  went  on  wildly  with  his  close  questioning,  obliging  his 
daughter  to  follow  him  in  his  freaks. 

'  What  have  you  seen  ?  what  have  you  seen  ?'  the 
gambler,  who  forgot  he  was  a  father,  asked  in  anguish. 

How  love's  young  dream  flew  away,  with  its  light  and 
happiness !  how  all  the  oppressive  ghosts  of  the  bare  old 
house  gathered  round  her  from  that  old  man  raving  alarm- 
ingly, and  obliging  her  to  go  through  the  same  terror. 
Also,  every  time  she  mentioned  the  name  of  Antonio  Amati, 
her  preserver,  friend,  and  lover,  the  Marquis  di  Formosa 
reddened  with  rage.  She  saw  that  her  father  had  ended 
by  hating  Amati  thoroughly  for  the  very  services  he  had 
done  him,  for  the  very  gratitude  he  owed  him.  Formosa's 
face  grew  so  hard  and  fierce  that  Bianca  Maria  was  fright- 
ened. Her  heart  was  torn  between  her  unwavering 
daughterly  respect  and  her  love  for  Antonio  Amati.  Once 
Margherita  hinted  before  Formosa  at  rumours  of  a  marriage 
between  her  ladyship  and  the  doctor.  The  Marquis  got 
into  a  fury  and  said  '  No !'  with  such  a  yell  that  Margherita 
put  her  hands  to  her  ears  in  a  fright. 

'  Still,  her  ladyship  must  marry  some  day,'  she  remarked 
timidly  and  maternally, '  and  the  doctor  might  be  better  than 
another.' 

17 


258  THE  LAND  OF  COCKAYNE 

'  I  said  no,1  the  Marquis  retorted  darkly. 

From  that  time  forward  he  spoke  in  a  still  more  wild 
and  eccentric  way.  Sometimes  in  the  middle  of  the  many 
mysterious  ghostly  incoherencies  his  mind  wandered 
amongst  he  came  back  in  speaking  to  his  daughter  to  a 
ruling  thought — to  love  looked  on  as  a  stain,  a  sin,  an  in- 
grained want  of  purity  in  soul  and  body.  The  girl  often 
blushed  in  her  simplicity  on  hearing  the  abuse  heaped  on 
love,  and  then  he  praised  the  chastity  that  keeps  the  heart 
in  a  state  of  grace — that  allows  human  eyes  to  see  super- 
natural visions,  and  go  through  life  in  a  sweet,  dreamy  state. 
He  would  get  excited,  and  curse  love  as  the  source  of  all 
defilement,  all  evils  and  sorrow.  Bianca  Maria  hid  her  face 
in  her  hands,  as  if  all  her  father's  strictures  fell  on  her  head. 

'  My  mother  was  a  saintly  woman,  and  she  loved  you,' 
she  remarked  one  day,  repenting  at  once  of  her  audacity. 

'  She  died  from  that  love,'  he  answered  darkly,  as  if  he 
was  speaking  to  himself. 

'  I  would  like  to  die  like  her,'  the  maiden  whispered. 

'  You  will  die  accursed — cursed  by  me,  remember  that !' 
he  shouted,  like  a  demon.  '  Woe  to  the  daughter  of  Casa 
Cavalcanti  who  stifles  her  heart  in  the  shame  of  an  earthly 
love  !  Woe  to  the  maiden  who  prefers  the  vulgar  horrors 
of  earthly  passion  to  the  purest  heights  of  spiritual  life !' 

She  bent  her  head  without  answering,  feeling  that  iron 
hand  ever  weighing  more  on  her  life  to  bend  and  break  it. 
She  dare  not  tell  her  lover  of  such  scenes  ;  only  sometimes, 
breaking  momentarily  the  bonds  of  respect  her  father  held 
her  in,  she  repeated  to  Amati  her  despairing  cry  : 

*  Take  me  away — take  me  away  !' 

He,  too,  now  had  lost  all  his  calm.  He  himself  was 
taken  by  this  plan  of  carrying  her  off,  of  taking  the  maiden 
away  as  his  comrade,  his  adored  companion — of  freeing  her 
from  the  dark  nightmare  of  a  life  that  was  a  daily  agony 
to  her.  Yes,  he  would  carry  off  the  poor  victim  from  the 
unconscious  executioner ;  he  would  tear  her  from  that 
atmosphere  of  vice,  mystery,  and  sadness  ;  bring  her  into 
his  house,  his  heart ;  defend  her  against  all  this  folly,  these 
tempests.  The  Marquis  di  Formosa  would  be  left  to 
struggle  with  his  passion  alone.  He  would  no  longer  drag 
to  the  abyss  of  desolation  he  was  plunging  into  this  poor 
meek,  innocent  girl.  Every  day  this  longing  to  save  her 
grew  in  his  heart,  until  it  became  all-powerful.  He  longed 


SA  CRILEGE—L O  V&S  DREAM  FLED  2 59 

to  speak  so  that  his  grand  dream  should  become  a  reality. 
Gravely  and  solemnly  he  had  promised  Bianca  Maria  that 
sad  evening  she  had  confided  her  sad  family  secret  to  him 
that  he  would  save  her,  and  an  honest  man  must  keep  his 
promise,  even  if  it  induce  in  him  the  wildest  ecstasies  or 
bring  on  a  sorrowful  depression  at  certain  times.  He 
longed  to  do  it.  In  the  meanwhile  the  days  ran  on.  Some 
uncertainty  still  withheld  him,  even  when  he  was  most 
strongly  resolved  to  ask  Formosa  for  his  daughter's  hand. 
He  vaguely  felt  that  the  answer  would  be  decisive — that 
after  it  was  said  his  life  would  be  settled  for  him.  But  an 
important  incident  all  of  a  sudden  made  him  come  to  a 
decision.  The  Marquis  di  Formosa,  amidst  the  fluctuations 
of  his  mind,  kept  up  his  mystical  piety,  and  every  Friday  he 
spent  hours  in  prayer  in  the  chapel  before  Our  Lady  of 
Sorrows  and  the  life-sized  pierced  Ecce  Homo  crowned  with 
thorns.  With  that  faith  of  Southerners  which  has  bursts  of 
enthusiasm,  but  is  also  bound  in  by  a  close  net  of  the 
commonplace  keeping  it  down  to  the  earth,  he  constantly 
mingled  heavenly  things  with  all  the  worldly  complications 
of  his  ruling  passion,  and  sometimes  in  his  despair  he  made 
the  responsibility  of  his  ruin  rest  on  his  Creator. 

'  You  allowed  this  to  happen  ;  it  is  all  Your  fault,  Jesus 
Christ  !'  the  Marquis  called  out  in  his  prayer.  But  on 
terrible  days  his  faith  became  still  more  accusing  and  sacri- 
legious, unjust.  '  It  is  all  Your  fault ;  You  allowed  it  to 
happen !'  he  cursed  on,  tears  burning  his  eyes,  his  voice 
choked.  Indeed,  one  evening  when  Bianca  Maria  thought 
her  father  had  gone  out,  on  passing  the  chapel  door  she 
heard  angry,  sorrowful  words  coming  from  it.  She  put  in 
her  head,  and  saw  her  father  kneeling  with  his  arms  thrown 
round  the  Ecce  Homo.  First  he  deplored  his  misfortunes  ; 
then  he  set  to  calling  out  blasphemies,  cursing  all  the  names 
of  the  Godhead  impiously  ;  then  he  repented  quickly,  asking 
pardon  for  his  untrue  and  sacrilegious  words,  until  a  new 
outburst  of  rage  came  on,  and  he  unclasped  the  holy  image 
with  scorn  and  threatening  words.  In  his  raving  he  threat- 
ened Jesus  Christ  his  Saviour,  bound  to  the  column,  to 
punish  Him — yes,  punish  Him — if  by  next  week  He  did  not 
allow  him  to  win  a  large  sum  at  the  lottery.  Bianca  Maria, 
horrified,  seeing  no  end  now  to  his  sacrilegious  madness, 
fled,  hiding  her  face  in  her  hand  ;  and,  shut  up  in  her  own 
room,  she  prayed  the  Lord  all  night  that  her  father's  ignorant 

17—2 


260  THE  LAND  OF  COCKA  YNE 

heresy  should  not  be  punished.  Now  she  always  shut  her- 
self up  at  night,  to  shield  her  slumbers  from  her  father's 
influence,  because  he  always  wanted  her  to  call  up  the  spirit, 
and  spoke  to  her  of  those  ghosts  as  of  living  persons — in 
short,  keeping  her  constantly  under  that  frightful  nightmare. 
But  she  slept  very  little,  in  spite  of  the  solitude  and  silence 
of  her  room ;  for  her  strained  nerves  shook  at  the  slightest 
noise,  because  she  was  always  afraid  that  her  father  would 
knock  at  her  door,  and  try  to  open  it  with  another  key,  to 
get  her  to  ask  the  ministering  spirit  for  lottery  numbers. 
While  she  was  slumbering  in  a  light  sleep  from  which  the 
slightest  noise  wakened  her,  she  started  as  if  excited  voices 
were  calling  her,  and  gazed  into  the  shadow  with  wide-open 
eyes,  as  if  she  saw  a  spectre  rising  up  by  her  bed.  How 
often  she  got  up,  half  dressed,  and  ran  bare-footed  over 
the  floor,  because  she  thought  a  light  hand  scratched  on 
the  pillow,  touched  her  forehead,  or  patted  her  hair ! 
One  night,  a  Saturday,  she  heard  her  father  going  up  and 
down,  as  she  lay  awake,  all  through  the  house,  passing 
before  her  door  several  times,  in  the  wild  cogitations  of  his 
storm-tossed  soul.  In  a  whisper  she  called  down  on  him 
Heaven's  peace — the  peace  that  seemed  to  have  deserted 
his  mind  altogether.  But  just  as  she  was  going  to  sleep 
again,  a  queer,  dull  noise  wakened  her,  quivering  ;  it  was  as 
if  a  very  heavy  body  was  being  pulled  along,  making  the 
doors  and  windows  shake  with  that  dull  rumble.  Sometimes 
the  mysterious  noise  quieted  down  and  was  silent ;  after 
about  a  minute's  pause  it  began  again,  stronger,  and  at  the 
same  time  more  deadened.  She  remained  raised  on  her 
pillows,  fastened  there  by  an  unknown  iron  hand :  what 
was  happening  there  ?  She  would  have  liked  to  cry  out, 
ring  the  bell,  get  hold  of  people,  but  that  rumble  deprived 
her  of  voice  ;  she  kept  silence  in  a  cold  sweat,  the  whole 
nerves  of  her  body  strained  to  hear  only.  The  noise,  like 
an  earthquake,  was  getting  nearer  and  nearer  to  her  door ; 
she  clasped  her  hands  in  the  dark,  and  shut  her  eyes  hard 
not  to  see,  praying  she  might  not  see.  Together  with  that 
dragging  of  a  heavy,  unsteady  object,  she  heard  laboured 
breathing,  as  if  someone  was  attempting  a  task  above  his 
strength ;  then  a  hard  knock,  as  if  her  door  had  been  hit  by 
a  catapult.  She  thought  her  door  had  violently  burst  open, 
and  fell  back  on  her  pillows,  not  hearing  or  seeing  anything 
else,  losing  her  feeble  senses.  Later  on,  a  good  time  after, 


SA CRILEGE—L OVES  DREAM  FLED  26 1 

she  recovered  consciousness,  frozen,  motionless;  she  stretched 
her  ears,  but  she  heard  nothing  else  for  a  long  time.  In  the 
confusion  there  now  was  between  her  dreams  and  realities, 
she  believed  that  all  she  had  heard  was  only  a  doleful  night- 
mare that  had  oppressed  her  with  its  terrors.  Had  she 
dreamt  it,  therefore — that  queer  earthquake,  that  laboured 
breathing,  that  strong  blow  on  her  door  ? 

In  the  morning,  having  rested  a  little,  she  got  up  easier, 
and,  after  saying  her  prayers,  went  to  her  father's  room,  as 
she  had  to  do  every  day,  to  wish  him  good-morning.  But 
she  did  not  find  him ;  the  bed  was  unused.  Several  times 
lately  the  Marquis  di  Formosa  had  not  come  home  at  night. 
The  first  time  it  had  caused  Bianca  Maria  and  the  servants 
great  alarm,  but  when  his  lordship  came  in,  he  scolded 
them  for  having  sent  to  look  for  him,  saying  he  would  not 
stand  being  spied  upon,  he  would  do  what  he  liked.  Still, 
every  time  Bianca  Maria  knew  that  he  had  spent  the  night 
out  of  the  house  she  got  uneasy  ;  he  was  so  old  and  eccen- 
tric ;  his  madness  led  him  into  dangerous  company,  and 
made  him  weak  and  credulous.  She  always  feared  some 
danger  would  befall  him  one  of  these  nights  on  the  road,  or 
in  some  secret  Cabalist  meeting.  She  trembled  that  morn- 
ing, too,  and  went  on  into  the  other  rooms,  thinking  over 
what  had  happened  at  night,  again  asking  herself  if  all  that 
did  not  point  to  a  dreadful  mystery.  She  found  Giovanni 
sweeping  carefully. 

'  Did  his  lordship  not  come  home  last  night  ?'  she  asked 
with  pretended  carelessness. 

'  He  did  come  in,  but  he  went  out  very  soon  again,' 
answered  the  servant. 

'  He  did  not  go  to  bed,  I  think,'  she  said  in  a  low  voice, 
casting  down  her  eyes. 

'  No,  my  lady,  he  did  not,'  said  old  Giovanni. 

Margherita  came  up  just  then ;  she  said  something 
hurriedly  to  her  husband,  who  agreed  to  it,  and  vanished 
into  the  kitchen. 

'  I  asked  Giovanni  to  draw  the  bucket  of  water  from  the 
well  this  morning,'  the  old  waiting- woman  said.  '  I  am  not 
strong  enough  to-day.' 

'  Poor  thing !  it  tires  you  too  much,'  Bianca  Maria  re- 
marked compassionately,  her  eyes  full  of  tears. 

'  I  am  rather  old,  but  I  could  do  anything  for  you,'  said 
the  faithful  one  in  a  motherly  voice.  '  But  I  don't  know 


262  THE  LAND  OF  COCKAYNE 

what  has  come  to  the  bucket  this  morning  ;  it  is  so  heavy  I 
can't  pull  it  up.  I  begged  Giovanni,  who  is  stronger  than  I 
am,  to  take  my  place.' 

Both  went  away  from  there,  because  Margherita  held  to 
the  honour  of  combing  out  Bianca  Maria's  thick  black 
tresses.  But  Giovanni  came  and  interrupted  the  combing. 
He  called  his  wife  out,  not  daring  to  come  in,  and  they 
chattered  together  some  time,  while  Bianca  Maria  waited, 
her  black  hair  loose  over  her  white  wrapper.  Margherita 
came  back  in  disorder ;  the  comb  shook  in  her  hand. 

'  What  is  the  matter  ?'  asked  Bianca  Maria. 

'  Nothing,  nothing,'  the  woman  uttered  hastily. 

'  Tell  me  what  it  is,'  the  other  persisted,  looking  at  the 
old  woman. 

'  It  is  that  Giovanni,  even,  cannot  pull  up  the  bucket.' 

'  Well,  but  why  are  you  alarmed  ?' 

'  Giovanni  says  there  is  something  in  the  way.' 

'  Something  in  the  way  ?     What  do  you  mean  ?' 

'  He  has  called  Francesco,  the  porter.  They  will  pull 
together.  Perhaps  they  will  get  over  the  difficulty.' 

'  What  can  it  be  ?'  the  girl  stammered,  growing  deadly 
pale. 

'  I  don't  know,  my  lady — I  don't  know,'  said  the  old 
woman,  trying  to  begin  her  combing  again. 

'  No,'  said  the  other  firmly,  waving  off  the  hand  with  the 
comb,  and  gathering  up  her  hair  with  a  pin — '  no  ;  we  had 
better  go  and  see.' 

'  My  lady,  my  lady,  what  can  we  do  ?  Giovanni  and 
Francesco  are  there.  We  had  best  stay  here.' 

'  I  am  going  there,'  the  girl  insisted,  going  towards  the 
kitchen. 

Old  Giovanni  and  Francesco  in  their  shirt-sleeves  were 
pulling  at  the  rope  with  all  their  strength,  and  it  hardly 
moved,  creaking  as  if  it  was  going  to  break.  Both  Giovanni's 
and  Francesco's  faces  showed,  besides  the  great  fatigue  they 
were  enduring,  that  they  were  in  a  great  fright. 

Occasionally,  with  heaving  sides  and  cramped  arms,  they 
gave  up  pulling,  and  cast  a  frightened  look  at  each  other. 
From  the  kitchen  doorway,  in  a  white  wrapper,  with  her 
hair  down,  Bianca  Maria  looked  on,  while  Margherita, 
standing  behind  her,  begged  her  in  a  whisper  to  go  away  for 
the  love  of  the  Virgin  !  to  go  away,  in  God's  name  ! 

'  But,  in  any  case,  what  can  it  be  ?'  asked  Bianca  Maria 


SACRILEGE— LOVE'S  DREAM  FLED  263 

steadily,  turning  to  the  two  men,  whose  growing  fears 
deprived  them  of  strength. 

'Who  can  tell,  my  lady?'  Giovanni  stammered.  'This 
weight  is  not  a  good  thing.' 

But  while  all  kept  their  eyes  fixed  on  the  well,  waiting  on 
in  anguish,  all  feeling  a  shudder  from  the  delay  and  fear  of 
the  unknown,  the  thing  the  two  men  were  pulling  up  hit 
twice  against  the  sides  of  the  well,  noisily  from  right  to  left. 
The  dull,  heavy  noise  echoed  in  Bianca  Maria's  heart,  for  it 
was  the  same  she  had  heard  at  night.  A  little  frightened 
cry  came  from  her  mouth  ;  she  pressed  her  nails  right  into 
her  flesh,  wringing  her  hands  to  keep  down  her  alarm  before 
the  servants.  But  once  more,  with  a  stronger,  nearer  sound, 
the  thing  beat  against  the  side  of  the  well. 

'  It  is  coming,'  said  the  message-boy  affrightedly. 

'  It  is  coming,'  Giovanni  repeated  in  consternation. 

Margherita,  standing  behind  Bianca  Maria,  could  not 
command  her  strained  nerves ;  she  prayed  in  a  trembling 
whisper,  '  Madonna,  help  us  !  Madonna,  deliver  us !'  But 
what  came  up  to  the  well-brink,  bounding,  quivering,  with 
the  bucket-rope  wound  three  times  round  its  neck,  the  chain 
hanging  on  the  breast,  made  her  yell  with  fright.  It  was  a 
man's  trunk,  water  and  blood  dripping  from  the  forehead 
over  the  sorrowful  cheeks  and  bared  breasts,  water  and 
blood  flowing  from  the  wounded  side ;  blood  and  tears  were 
in  his  eyes,  and  over  the  face  and  breast,  which  all  had 
death's  livid  hue. 

Yelling  from  fright,  Francesco  and  Giovanni  ran  off, 
calling  for  '  Help  !  help  !'  The  women,  mistress  and  maid, 
rushed  to  the  drawing-room  and  fell  in  each  other's  arms,  the 
one  hiding  her  face  on  the  other's  breast,  not  daring  to  raise 
it,  haunted  by  the  frightful  sight  of  the  murdered  body.  It 
was  quite  livid,  bloody  in  the  face,  breast,  and  enfolded 
arms,  with  a  despairing  look  in  the  eyes  and  half-open 
mouth,  which  seemed  to  be  sobbing.  It  stood  against  the 
parapet  dripping  blood  and  water,  bound  by  the  cord  and 
chain.  The  message-boy  and  the  butler  had  flung  down- 
stairs, calling  out  there  was  a  dead  man,  a  murdered  man. 
At  once,  on  the  stairs,  the  gateway,  the  whole  neighbour- 
hood, the  news  spread  that  a  murdered  man's  body  had  been 
found  in  the  Rossi  Palace  well. 

Everyone  opened  doors  and  rushed  to  windows;  but 
Francesco  and  Giovanni's  confused,  breathless  story  caused 


264  THE  LAND  OF  COCKAYNE 

such  fright  no  one  dared  go  in  at  the  Marquis  di  For- 
mosa's open  door,  or  to  the  kitchen  where  the  corpse 
lay.  The  women  were  still  clinging  to  each  other  in  the 
drawing-room ;  though  Margherita  tried  to  command  her- 
self for  her  mistress'  sake,  she  felt  the  girl's  body  grow 
flabby  from  want  of  vital  force — sometimes  it  stiffened  as  in 
a  nervous  convulsion.  But  the  great  whispering  in  the 
palace  had  got  even  into  the  doctor's  flat,  and  his  heart  was 
always  quivering,  expecting  a  catastrophe.  He  put  his 
head  out  of  the  window  and  saw  people  everywhere ;  the 
sound  of  voices  came  up  even  to  him,  saying  that  a  mur- 
dered man  had  been  found  in  the  Rossi  Palace  well,  and 
that  the  body  was  in  the  Cavalcantis'  kitchen.  Just  then 
Giovanni,  on  thinking  it  over  that  the  two  women  had  been 
left  alone,  felt  sorry  that  he  had  made  such  a  fuss,  for  he 
knew  the  scandal  would  be  reflected  on  the  Cavalcanti 
family,  and  he  was  going  upstairs  again. 

'  Is  there  really  a  dead  man  ?'  Amati  asked  him,  not 
managing  to  conceal  how  disturbed  he  was,  in  spite  of  his 
strength  of  mind. 

'  Yes,  sir,  there  really  is,'  said  the  butler,  with  desperation 
in  his  eyes  and  voice. 
'  Who  saw  it  ?' 
'  Everyone  saw  it.' 

'  What !  everyone  ?     Did  your  mistress  see  it,  too  ?' 
'  Yes,  sir,  she  did.' 

The  doctor  cast  a  furious  look  at  him  and  went  into  the 
fatal  house,  where  a  tragic  breath  had  always  blown  from 
the  first  moment  he  put  his  foot  in  it,  where  any  queer, 
doleful  tragedy  was  possible  to  happen.  He  wandered 
about  the  rooms  like  a  madman  in  search  of  Bianca  Maria, 
and  found  her  sitting  on  a  large  drawing-room  chair,  so  pale, 
so  terrified,  so  silent,  that  Margherita  was  kneeling  before 
her  in  alarm,  holding  her  hands,  begging  her  to  say  a  word 
— only  a  word. 

Bianca  Maria  glanced  at  Amati,  but  seemed  not  to  know 
him ;  she  kept  cold  and  inert  and  stiff  in  her  frightened 
attitude. 

'  Bianca,'  said  the  doctor  gently.  She  still  kept  silence. 
'  Bianca,'  he  said  louder,  and  he  took  her  hand.  At  the 
light  touch  she  quivered,  gave  a  cry,  and  came  back  to 
consciousness.  '  My  love,  my  love !  speak  to  me — weep,' 
he  suggested,  looking  at  her  magnetically,  trying  to  put  his 


SA  CRILEGE—L  O  VE'S  DREAM  FLED  265 

strong  will  and  courage  into  her.    All  of  a  sudden,  as  if  that 
will  and  strength  had  unsealed  her  lips,  she  began  to  cry  out : 

'  The  dead  man  !  take  him  away — take  away  the  dead 
man !' 

'  Now,  now,  don't  be  frightened  ;  we  are  taking  him  away  ; 
keep  calm,'  the  doctor  said  to  her. 

'The  dead  man — the  dead  man  !'  she  cried  out,  covering 
her  face  with  her  hands  wildly.  '  For  goodness'  sake  take 
the  dead  man  away,  or  he  will  carry  me  off.  Do  not  let  him 
take  me  away,  I  entreat  you,  darling,  if  you  love  me.' 

The  doctor  gave  Margherita  a  look  bidding  her  take  care 
of  Bianca,  and  went  into  the  kitchen,  followed  by  Giovanni. 
In  the  lobby  were  some  people  who  were  already  speaking  of 
calling  the  magistrate ;  there  were  the  porter,  his  wife,  the 
Fragala  and  the  Parascandolos'  servants,  and  Francesco 
the  errand  boy,  but  not  one  of  them  dared  enter  the  kitchen, 
even  after  the  doctor  went  in.  They  let  him  go  alone, 
waiting  on  silently  in  the  pantry,  still  wild  with  fear.  The 
doctor,  though  accustomed  to  see  dead  bodies,  being  shaken 
by  that  catastrophe  that  affected  him  so  particularly,  broken- 
spirited  with  the  thought  of  the  consequences,  went  into 
the  kitchen  a  victim  to  the  deepest  melancholy,  and  the 
sight  of  the  bleeding  forehead,  weeping  eyes,  the  tied, 
wounded  hands,  the  livid  trunk,  wounded,  bleeding,  and 
bound,  increased  the  feeling.  But  the  coolness  of  a  man  of 
science,  accustomed  to  see  death,  took  the  upper  hand ; 
going  right  up  to  it,  he  saw  the  head  had  a  crown  of  thorns, 
and  with  perfect  stupefaction  he  understood  it  all. 

It  was  the  Ecce  Homo.  The  wooden,  life-sized  half- figure 
of  the  Redeemer  tied  to  the  column,  powerfully  carved  and 
painted,  had  all  the  disagreeable  appearance  of  a  bleeding 
corpse ;  the  well  water  it  had  fallen  into  had  discoloured  the 
flesh  and  the  vermilion  blood,  making  it  run,  with  the  double 
magical  effect  of  murder  and  drowning.  Still,  Dr.  Amati 
felt  his  heart  tighten  on  finding  out  this  doleful  farce — that 
mixture  of  cruelty  and  grotesqueness.  Amazement  was  his 
predominant  feeling  ;  the  strong  man  only  thought  of  Bianca 
Maria's  great  suffering,  of  her  sickness  and  sorrow,  now 
mortally  wounded,  perhaps,  by  this  gloomy,  mystical,  childish 
madness  that  the  Marquis  di  Formosa  was  proud  of.  All 
that  was  urgent  now  was  to  save  her. 

'  It  is  the  Ecce  Homo,'  he  said  shortly,  as  he  went  out  to 
the  people  assembled  in  the  pantry. 


266  THE  LAND  OF  COCKA  YNE 

'  What  do  you  say,  sir?'  Giovanni  cried  out,  feeling  the 
same  astonishment,  increased  by  horror,  of  the  sacrilege. 

'  It  is  the  Ecce  Homo,'  he  repeated,  looking  coldly  at 
them  all  with  that  imperious  look  of  his  that  permitted  of 
no  reply.  '  Go  into  the  kitchen,  dry  it,  and  take  it  back  to 
the  chapel.' 

They  looked  at  each  other,  asking  opinions ;  having  got 
over  the  horror  of  a  dead  man,  the  outrage  on  the  Divinity 
shocked  them. 

'  You  may  send  for  the  priest  afterwards,'  he  said,  '  to 
give  a  blessing ;'  for  he  knew  the  heart  of  the  Naples  folk. 

The  girl  was  still  lying  on  the  armchair,  her  eyes  covered 
with  her  hands,  always  muttering  to  herself : 

'  The  dead  man — the  dead  man,  dear  love  !  Take  him 
away.  Get  the  dead  man  carried  away.' 

'  There  is  no  dead  man,  dear,'  he  said,  with  the  gentleness 
that  came  from  his  great  pity. 

'  Yes,  yes  there  was,'  she  whispered,  shaking  her  head  in 
a  melancholy  way,  as  if  nothing  would  convince  her  to  the 
contrary. 

'There  was  no  dead  man,'  he  answered  gravely,  feeling  it 
was  necessary  to  bring  her  back  to  reason. 

He  tried  to  take  her  hands  from  her  eyes,  but  they 
stiffened,  and  an  agonized  expression  came  over  the  girl's 
face. 

'  Look  at  me  for  a  moment,'  he  whispered  in  an  in- 
sinuating tone. 

'  I  can't — I  can't !'  she  said  in  a  sad,  mysterious  voice. 

'  Why  not  ?' 

'  Because  I  would  see  the  dead  man,  love — my  love !'  she 
said,  still  with  that  deep  sadness  that  brought  tears  to  the 
doctor's  eyes. 

'  Dear,  I  swear  to  you  that  there  is  no  dead  man,'  he 
replied  again  gently,  as  persistent  as  with  a  sick  child. 

In  the  meanwhile  he  tried  to  feel  her  pulse,  and  the  temper- 
ature of  her  skin.  Strange  to  say,  while  she  seemed  almost 
delirious,  her  hand  was  icy  and  the  pulse  was  slow  and  feeble. 
It  gave  him  a  pang  at  the  heart,  for  that  want  of  life  and 
strength  showed  him  a  continuous  incurable  wasting  away. 
He  would  have  liked  to  find  out  about  that  curious  disease 
which  made  the  blood  so  feeble  and  the  nerves  so  irritable, 
but  his  heart  loved  Bianca  Maria  too  well  for  his  science 
to  keep  its  clear-sightedness.  He  could  not  find  out  the 


SA  CRILEGE—L  O  VE*  S  DREA  M  FLED  267 

secret  of  the  impoverished  blood  or  the  disordered  nerves  ; 
he  only  understood  thus,  darkly,  that  her  constitution  was 
wasting  away  from  weakness  and  sensitiveness.  He  did 
not  think  of  medicine  or  rare  remedies  ;  he  just  thought,  in 
a  confused  way,  he  must  save  her — that  was  all.  Ah,  yes, 
he  must  snatch  her  at  once  from  that  madman's  claws — this 
poor  innocent  girl  that  was  subjected  daily  to  being  startled 
by  this  hopeless  folly  ;  he  must  take  her  away  from  that 
growing  wretchedness  of  soul  and  body,  from  that  fatal 
going  downhill  to  sin  and  death — his  poor  darling  who  only 
knew  how  to  suffer  without  rebellion  or  complaint.  He 
must  act  at  once ;  he  was  a  man  and  a  Christian.  He  must 
save  this  unhappy  girl,  as  he  so  often  had  saved  people 
from  hydrophobia,  or  as,  on  one  occasion,  he  had  saved  a 
wretched  man  who  had  got  tetanus.  At  once — at  once — he 
must  save  her,  or  he  would  not  be  in  time.  Where  was  the 
Marquis,  then  ?  Where  was  the  cruel  madman  that  staked 
his  name,  his  honour,  his  daughter  ? 

'  Sir,  it  is  done,'  said  Giovanni,  putting  in  his  head  at  the 
door.  The  old  servant  was  very  pale.  After  being  relieved 
from  the  terrifying  impression  of  what  he  thought  was  a 
murdered  corpse,  the  serious  insult  his  master  had  done  to 
the  Godhead  came  to  disturb  his  humble  religious  con- 
science. That  figure  of  the  Redeemer,  with  the  cord  round 
His  neck,  hung  down  in  the  well,  as  if  it  was  the  mangled 
remains  of  a  murdered  man — to  see  that  representation  of 
the  meek  Jesus  so  scorned  made  him  think  that  his  master's 
reason  had  given  way  ;  such  sacrilege  must  bring  a  curse  on 
the  house.  He  called  out  Margherita,  to  tell  her  what  had 
happened,  while  the  neighbours  round  about — on  the  stair, 
at  the  entrance,  and  in  the  shops — were  going  about  saying 
that  the  Ecce  Homo  of  Cavalcanti  House  had  done  a  miracle, 
resuscitating  a  man  that  had  been  murdered,  by  putting 
Himself  in  his  place.  Everywhere,  in  different  ways,  they 
got  lottery  numbers  out  of  the  extraordinary  event. 

'  The  dead  man,  poor  fellow !'  the  girl  went  on,  half  un- 
conscious, the  voice  like  a  faint  breath  from  her  lips. 

1  Do  not  say  that  again,  Bianca  Maria.  Believe  what  I 
say,'  the  doctor  replied  with  gentle  firmness.  '  There  was 
no  dead  man ;  it  was  the  Ecce  Homo  statue.' 

'  Who  was  it  ?'  she  cried  out,  getting  up  and  looking  wildly 
at  him. 

He  gave  a  start.     He  thought  it  was  the  crisis,  her  mind 


268  THE  LAND  OF  COCKA  YNE 

having  wandered  so  long,  so  he  repeated,  trying  to  influence 
her  by  his  steady  gaze  : 

'  It  was  the  Ecce  Homo  figure.  Your  father  flung  it  in  the 
well,  with  a  rope  round  its  neck.' 

'  My  God  !'  she  shrieked  in  a  loud  voice,  raising  her  arms 
to  heaven.  '  God  forgive  us  !' 

She  fell  on  her  knees  and  bent  forward,  touching  the 
ground  with  her  lips.  Weeping,  praying,  sobbing,  she  went 
on  imploring  the  Lord  to  forgive  her  and  her  father.  No- 
thing served  to  quiet  her,  to  get  her  up  from  the  ground, 
where  she  often  burst  out  in  long  crying-fits.  The  doctor 
vainly  tried  gentleness,  kindness,  force,  violence ;  he  did  not 
succeed  in  quieting  her.  Bianca  Maria's  excitement  in- 
creased, though  there  were  some  stupefied  intervals,  after 
which  it  burst  out  louder  again.  Sometimes,  while  she 
seemed  to  be  keeping  calm,  a  quick  thought  crossed  her 
brain,  and  she  threw  herself  on  the  ground,  crying  out : 
'  Ecce  Homo !  Ecce  Homo,  forgive  us !' 

The  doctor  looked  on,  shuddering,  his  head  down  on  his 
breast,  feeling  his  will  powerless,  his  science  useless.  What 
was  to  be  done  ?  He  called  in  Giovanni  and  wrote  two 
lines  on  a  card — an  order  for  morphia,  which  he  sent  for  to 
the  druggist's.  But  he  was  afraid  to  use  it :  Bianca  Maria 
was  not  strong  enough  to  bear  it.  She  despairingly,  with 
strong,  queer  vitality,  beat  her  breast,  muttering  the  Latin 
words  of  the  Miserere,  weeping  always,  as  if  she  had  an  in- 
exhaustible fountain  of  tears. 

This  had  gone  on  for  an  hour,  when  quietly  the  Marquis 
came  into  the  room.  He  looked  older,  wearied,  and  broken 
with  the  weight  of  life. 

'  What  is  the  matter  with  Bianca  Maria  ?'  he  asked 
timidly.  '  What  have  you  done  to  her  ?' 

'  It  is  you  that  are  killing  her,'  the  doctor  said  freezingly. 

'  You  are  right — quite  right.  Darling,  I  am  an  assassin  !' 
shrieked  the  old  man. 

That  man  of  sixty  cast  himself  at  his  daughter's  feet, 
trembling  with  shame  and  humiliation,  shaken  by  dry  sobs. 
Under  the  doctor's  eyes  the  scene  went  on,  with  filial  and 
paternal  positions  reversed.  That  bald,  gray-haired  father, 
with  his  tall,  failing  form,  full  of  dread  and  sorrow,  shedding 
old  folks'  rare  burning  tears,  feeling  the  whole  horror  of  his 
fault,  bent  before  his  young  daughter,  begging  her  to  forgive 
him,  with  a  childish  stammer  in  his  voice,  just  like  a  boy 


5.4  CRILEGE-  L  O  VE> S  DREA  M  FLED  269 

relieving  his  childish  repentance  by  crying.  The  daughter 
was  still  trembling  from  the  great  wound  his  inconsiderate 
cruelty  had  given  her  soul ;  it  was  quivering  with  the  gall 
his  cruelty  still  poured  into  it,  while  her  father's  humiliation 
made  her  groan  still  more  dolefully.  To  the  strong  man, 
whose  life  had  always  been  an  honest,  noble  struggle, 
directed  always  towards  the  highest  ideals,  both  of  them 
seemed  so  weak,  so  wretched,  so  utterly  unhappy — the  one  as 
torturer,  the  other  as  victim — that  he  once  more  regretted  the 
time  when  the  tragic  Cavalcanti  family  had  not  got  hold  of 
his  heart,  to  grind  it  to  powder.  But  it  was  too  late ;  that 
misery,  unhappiness,  and  weakness  struck  him  so  directly 
now  that  Amati,  strong  man  as  he  was,  suffered  in  all  these 
spasms,  and  could  not  control  his  instinct  to  give  help,  the 
feeling  that  was  the  secret  of  his  noble  soul. 

'  Forgive  me,  dear — forgive  your  old  father  ;  trample  on 
me,  I  deserve  it — but  forgive  me,'  the  Marquis  di  Formosa 
went  on  saying,  seized  with  a  wild,  grovelling  humility. 

'  Do  not  say  that — do  not  say  it.  I  am  a  wretched  sinner ; 
ask  forgiveness  of  Ecce  Homo,  whom  you  have  insulted,  or 
our  house  is  accursed,  and  we  will  all  die  and  be  damned. 
For  the  sake  of  our  eternal  salvation  ask  Ecce  Homo  to 
forgive  you.' 

*  Whatever  you  wish,  whatever  you  order  me,  I  will  do,' 
he  answered,  still  grovelling,  holding  out  his  hands  beseech- 
ingly ;  '  but  Ecce  Homo  deserted  me,  Bianca  Maria — he 
betrayed  me  again,  you  see,'  he  ended  by  saying,  again 
seized  with  the  rage  that  had  led  him  to  do  the  sacrilegious, 
wicked,  grotesque  act. 

'  You  frighten  me,'  she  cried  out,  stepping  back  and  putting 
out  her  arms  to  prevent  him  touching  her :  '  you — a  man — 
wanted  to  punish  the  Divine  Jesus.  Ask  for  forgiveness  if 
you  do  not  want  us  all  to  die  damned.' 

'  You  are  right,'  he  muttered,  frightened,  humbled  again. 
'  Do  what  you  like  with  me.  I  will  do  penance.  I  will  obey 
you  as  if  you  were  my  mother.  I  am  a  murderer,  a 
scoundrel.' 

The  Marquis  threw  himself  into  a  chair,  broken  down, 
his  breast  upheaving,  his  head  bent,  and  keeping  a  glassy 
stare  on  the  ground.  His  daughter  was  standing  in  a  white 
dressing-gown  that  modestly  covered  her  from  head  to 
foot,  her  black  hair  loose  on  her  shoulders,  and  she  had 
the  dreamy,  sorrowful  look  of  one  walking  in  her  sleep, 


270  THE  LAND  OF  COCKA  YNE 

wakened  from  wandering,  pleasant  dreams.  The  doctor 
broke  in : 

'  Bianca  Maria,'  he  said. 

'  What  is  it  you  want  ?'  she  replied,  feebly  looking  at  her 
father,  who  was  still  plunged  in  deep  dejection. 

'  Your  father  is  much  distressed ;  you  are  in  pain — you 
must  both  forget  this  sad  scene.  Will  you  listen  to  kindly 
good  advice  from  me  ?' 

'  You  are  goodness  and  kindness  itself,'  she  whispered, 
raising  her  eyes  to  heaven.  '  Speak — I  will  obey  you.' 

'  This  has  been  a  very  sad  time,  Bianca  Maria,  but  it 
may  bring  good  fruit.  Your  father  and  you  have  wept 
together — tears  cleanse.  By  your  common  sufferings,  by 
the  love  you  bear  him,  you  ought  to  ask  your  father  not  to 
humiliate  himself  so  far  as  to  ask  your  pardon,  but  to 
promise  you,  in  the  name  of  all  you  have  suffered,  to  do 
what  you  will  request  him  later  on,  when  you  are  calmer ; 
tell  him  so,  Bianca  Maria.' 

The  girl's  mobile  face,  which  had  been  drawn  and  quiver- 
ing, at  the  doctor's  commanding,  quiet,  amiable  words,  at 
that  voice  that  had  the  magic  power  of  giving  her  ease  and 
faith  in  life,  was  getting  tranquillized.  Her  soul,  broken 
and  tired,  was  resting. 

'  So  be  it,'  she  whispered,  as  if  she  was  finishing  an  inward 
prayer  aloud.  Going  up  to  the  big  chair,  where  her  father 
lay  looking  quite  broken  down,  she  bent  towards  him,  and 
in  a  very  gentle  voice  said  : 

'  Father,  you  love  me,  do  you  not  ?' 

'  Yes,  dear,'  said  he. 

'  Will  you  do  me  a  favour  ?' 

'  I  will  do  everything — all,  Bianca  Maria.' 

'  I  only  want  one  favour  for  my  good,  for  my  future  health 
and  happiness ;  promise  to  do  it.' 

'  Whatever  you  like,  dear  ;  I  am  your  servant.' 

'It  is  a  great  favour.  I  will  tell  you  later  on,  when  we 
are  in  God's  grace  again,  when  we  are  both  quieter,  what  it 
is.  I  have  your  word,  father,  your  word — you  have  never 
failed.' 

'  You  have  my  word,'  he  said,  panting  as  if  he  were  not  fit 
to  go  on  talking. 

She  understood  ;  she  bent  with  her  usual  filial  submission 
and  touched  his  hand  with  her  lips  ;  he  lightly  touched  her 
forehead  as  a  blessing.  She  went  to  Amati,  held  out  her 


SACRILEGE— LOVE'S  DREAM  FLED  271 

hand,  and  looked  at  him  with  such  loving  intensity  that  he 
grew  pale,  and,  to  hide  his  emotion,  bowed  down  to  kiss 
her  hand.  Slowly  dragging  her  slender  person,  from  failing 
strength,  she  went  out  of  the  room,  leaving  the  two  alone. 
The  old  man  seemed  wrapped  in  deep  and  rather  sad 
reflections,  for  he  raised  his  face  to  heaven  and  cast  it  down 
in  an  anguished  way,  shaking  his  head  as  if  discouraged. 
The  doctor  saw  that  the  right  moment  had  come. 

'  Can  you  listen  to  me  ?'  he  asked  very  coldly. 

'  I  would  prefer  ...  I  would  like  to  wait  for  some  other 
day,  rather,1  the  Marquis  answered  in  a  feeble  voice. 

'  It  will  be  better  to  have  the  talk  out  to-day,'  Amati  said, 
with  the  same  commanding  coldness. 

'  I  am  much  disturbed  .  .  .  very.' 

'  It  may  be  that  from  what  I  tell  you  you  will  find  some- 
thing to  soothe  you.  You  know  that  I  am  devoted  to  you.' 

'  Yes,  yes,'  the  other  said  vaguely. 

'  I  cannot  say  much  to  prove  my  devotion  ;  I  try  when  I 
can  to  act  in  that  spirit.  I  am  sincerely  attached  to  both 
of  you.' 

'  We  know  it  ;  our  debt  of  gratitude  is  great.' 

'  Do  not  speak  of  that.  For  some  time  past  I  have  wished 
to  tell  you  of  a  hope  of  mine,  and  I  dared  not.  You  know 
me  better  than  to  suppose  that  any  material  interest  would 
influence  me.  You  see,  my  lord,  I  do  not  want  to  recall  the 
past  to  your  memory,  it  is  so  sorrowful,  but  it  is  necessary 
to  do  it.  You  and  your  daughter  have  been  in  poor  circum- 
stances for  some  years,  and  it  is  certainly  not  your  daughter's 
fault.  Your  intentions  are  loving  and  holy  ;  they  have  a 
high  motive  all  honest  men  must  approve  of — the  setting  up 
of  your  house  and  fortune,  to  get  happiness  for  your  daughter ; 
it  is  a  good  intention,  I  do  not  deny  it.  I  myself  admire  this 
noble  wish  of  yours.' 

The  Marquis  held  up  his  head  now  and  then,  glanced  at 
the  doctor  with  a  flutter  of  his  eyelids,  showing  approval  of 
what  he  was  saying,  with  such  care  and  delicacy  not  to 
offend,  not  to  cast  an  old  man  down  more,  for  he  suffered 
so  much  from  his  humiliation. 

1  But  the  means,'  the  doctor  went  on  to  say — '  the  means 
were  risky,  hazardous,  very  dangerous.  Your  passionate 
desire  for  fortune  made  you  go  beyond  bounds,  made  you 
forget  all  the  sufferings  you  were  unconsciously  spreading 
around  you.  Do  you  not  see,  my  lord  ?  You  have  sickness, 


272  THE  LAND  OF  COCKA  YNE 

wretchedness,  around  you,  and  in  you.  Passion  has  carried 
you  away,  and  the  loveliest,  dearest  of  women,  your  daughter, 
must  fall  into  the  abyss  with  you.' 

'  Poor  darling !  poor  darling !'  the  Marquis  muttered 
pityingly. 

'You  love  your  daughter,  do  you  not?'  Dr.  Amati  asked, 
wishing  to  touch  all  the  chords  of  feeling. 

'  I  love  no  one  but  her ;  I  love  her  above  everything,' 
Formosa  said  quickly,  with  tears  in  his  eyes  again. 

'  Well,  there  is  a  way  of  protecting  that  innocent  young 
life  from  all  the  physical  and  moral  anguish  that  daily  eats  it 
up ;  there  is  a  means  of  taking  her  out  of  these  unhealthy 
surroundings  of  decent  but  stern  poverty  that  she  suffers 
from  in  every  nerve  ;  there  is  a  means  of  securing  her  a 
healthy,  comfortable  future,  with  the  peace  and  quietness 
her  pure  soul  deserves  ;  there  is  a  way  for  her  to  recover, 
and  it  is  in  your  hands.' 

'  I  tried  it,  you  know,'  the  Marquis  di  Formosa  said 
despairingly  ;  '  but  I  did  not  succeed.' 

'  You  do  not  take  my  meaning,'  the  doctor  went  on,  barely 
keeping  in  his  impatience,  as  he  saw  that  the  Marquis  was 
still  blinded.  '  I  am  not  speaking  of  the  lottery,  which 
has  been  so  disastrous  to  your  family,  a  torment  to  your 
daughter,  the  despair  of  all  who  love  you  and  wish  you  well. 
How  can  you  suppose  I  was  referring  to  the  lottery  ?' 

'  Still,  it  is  the  only  way  to  make  money — a  lot  of  money. 
Only  with  that  can  I  save  Bianca  Maria.' 

'  You  are  making  a  mistake,'  the  doctor  answered  still 
more  coldly.  '  I  am  speaking  of  something  else  ;  ease  and 
fortune  can  be  found  elsewhere.' 

'  It  is  not  possible.  There  is  no  limit  to  what  one  can  win 
at  the  lottery.  .  .  .' 

'  My  lord,  I  am  speaking  seriously.  This  madness  of 
your  Cabalist  friends  does  not  influence  me ;  indeed,  it 
infuriates  me  when  I  think  of  the  sorrow  it  causes.  I  can 
recognise  the  good  intentions,  but  they  stand  for  an  unpar- 
donable frenzy.  Never  refer  to  it  with  me  again — never  !' 

Formosa  looked  up  ;  his  face,  which  till  then  was  un- 
decided and  disturbed,  got  icy  and  hard.  That  '  never,' 
said  so  firmly  by  Antonio  Amati,  made  him  frown  rather. 

'  What  methods  are  you  referring  to,  then  ?'  he  asked  in  a 
queer  voice,  in  which  Amati  noted  hostility  again. 

'  Perhaps  to-day  we  are  too  excited  ;  let  us  put  off  talking 


SACRILEGE— LOVES  DREAM  FLED  273 

about  it  till  another  occasion,'  muttered  Amati,  who  saw  he 
was  about  to  lose  an  important  advantage.  '  To-morrow 
will  do.' 

'  There  is  no  use  in  delaying,'  the  Marquis  di  Formosa 
insisted  coldly  and  politely.  '  As  it  has  to  do  with  Bianca 
Maria's  welfare,  I  am  ready.' 

'  Give  me  your  daughter  for  my  wife,'  said  Dr.  Amati 
quickly  and  energetically. 

The  Marquis  di  Formosa  shut  his  eyes  for  a  moment  as 
if  a  bright  light  dazzled  them,  as  if  he  wanted  to  hide  his 
flashing  glance,  and  did  not  answer. 

'  I  think  I  am  offering  your  daughter  a  position  worthy  of 
the  name  she  bears,'  the  doctor  went  on  again  at  once, 
determined  to  go  to  the  bottom  of  it,  '  for  my  work  has 
brought  me  money  and  credit ;  it  is  no  use  being  modest. 
I  will  work  still  harder,  so  that  she  may  be  rich,  very  rich, 
happy,  and  in  an  assured  position,  protected  by  my  love  and 
strength.' 

'  You  love  Bianca  Maria,  do  you  ?'  Formosa  said,  without 
looking  Amati  in  the  face. 

'  I  worship  her,'  he  said  simply. 

'  Does  she  love  you  ?' 

'  Yes,  she  loves  me.' 

'  You  are  a  liar,  sir  !'  the  Marquis  di  Formosa  answered, 
in  a  deep  voice. 

'  Why  insult  me  ?'  asked  the  doctor,  determined  to  stand 
everything.  '  An  insult  is  no  answer.' 

'  I  tell  you  that  you  are  lying,  and  that  you  have  no 
ground  for  saying  you  are  loved.' 

«  Your  daughter  told  me  that  she  loves  me.' 

'  That  is  all  lies.' 

«  She  wrote  it  to  me.' 

«  Lies.     Where  are  the  letters  ?' 

'  I  will  bring  them.' 

1  They  are  not  genuine.     All  lies.' 

'  Ask  her.' 

'  I  will  not  ask  her.  My  daughter  cannot  love  without 
having  told  her  father.' 

'  Ask  her  about  it.' 

'  No,  she  confides  in  me.     You  lie.' 

'  Question  her  on  the  subject.' 

'  She  would  have  spoken  to  me  before  ;  my  daughter  is 
obedient ;  she  tells  me  everything.' 

18 


274  THE  LAND  OF  COCKA  YNE 

'  It  does  not  look  as  if  she  did.' 

'  I  am  her  father,  by  Gad  !' 

'  You  have  often  forgotten  that  you  are ;  she  may  have 
forgotten  it  this  time.' 

'  Dr.  Amati,  don't  go  on  speaking  on  this  subject,'  the 
Marquis  said,  with  cold,  ironical  politeness. 

'  I  insist  on  it,  it  is  my  right ;  I  have  not  lied.  Besides, 
I  spoke  distinctly  ;  I  offer  myself  to  your  daughter,  who  is 
sick,  poor  and  sad,  as  husband,  friend,  protector,  to  care  for 
her,  body  and  soul,  to  love  and  serve  her  as  she  deserves. 
Will  you  give  me  your  daughter  ?  You  ought  to  answer 
this.' 

'  I  will  not  give  her  to  you.' 

'  Why  will  you  not  ?' 

'  There  is  no  need  for  me  to  give  my  reasons.' 

'  As  the  refusal  is  insulting,  I  have  a  right  to  ask  them. 
Perhaps  it  is  because  it  is  I  am  not  of  noble  birth  ?' 

'  It  is  not  for  that.' 

'  Do  you  not  think  me  young  enough  ?' 

'  It  is  not  that,  either.' 

'  Have  you  a  particular  dislike  to  me  ?' 

'  No,  I  have  not.' 

'  Why  is  it,  then  ?' 

'  I  repeat  that  I  do  not  choose  to  tell  you  the  reason ;  I 
can  only  answer  "  No."  ' 

'  You  will  not  agree  even  if  I  wait  ?' 

'No.' 

'  You  give  me  no  hope  for  the  future  ?' 

1  None.' 

'  Not  in  any  circumstances  ?' 

'  Never,'  the  Marquis  said  decisively. 

They  said  no  more.     Both  were  vexed  in  a  different  way. 

c  Do  you  want  your  daughter  to  die  ?'  said  the  doctor, 
after  thinking  a  minute. 

'  Never  fear,  she  won't  die ;  there  is  something  keeps 
her  up.' 

'  To-morrow  she,  a  Cavalcanti,  will  be  a  beggar.' 

'  I  will  make  her  a  millionaire,  sir  ;  I  alone  have  the  right 
to  enrich  her.' 

'  I  told  you  that  I  love  her.' 

'  Nothing  can  equal  my  affection.' 

*  But  woman's  destiny  is  love  in  marriage,  and  to  have 
children.' 


SACRILEGE— LOVE'S  DREAM  FLED  275 

'  Of  common,  vulgar  women,  but  not  of  Bianca  Maria 
Cavalcanti.  She  has  a  very  high  mission,  if  she  will  carry 
it  out.' 

'  My  lord,  you  will  ruin  her.' 

'  I  am  saving  her.  I  assure  her  immortal  fame  and  im- 
mortal life.' 

'  My  lord,  I  beg,  you  see  how  I  implore,  I  who  have  never 
prayed  to  anyone.  Don't  say  "  No  "  so  obstinately  without 
even  consulting  Bianca  Maria.  You  are  preparing  a  new, 
heavy  sorrow  for  her.  You  give  me  no  chance  of  living  for 
her,  and  insult  me,  an  honest  man,  like  this  for  no  reason. 
I  beg  you  think  over  it ;  don't  make  up  your  mind  at  once.' 

'  To-morrow  or  any  other  time  would  be  the  same.  It  is 
"No" — always  "No";  nothing  else  but  "  No."  You  will 
not  get  Donna  Bianca  Maria  Cavalcanti,'  he  said,  grinning 
devilishly. 

'  Think  it  over,  my  lord.  If  you  still  say  "  No  "  to  me,  I 
must  go  away  for  ever.  Do  not  sever  our  ties  so  roughly.' 

'  You  are  free  to  go  as  far  as  you  like.  We  will  not  see 
each  other  again.  Perhaps  it  would  have  been  better  had 
we  never  met.' 

'  That  is  true.     I  am  going.' 

'  Go,  certainly.     Good-bye,  sir.' 

'  Before  going  away,  however,  I  want  to  question  your 
daughter  here,  before  you.  We  are  not  in  the  Middle  Ages ; 
a  girl's  will  goes  for  something,  too.' 

'  It  does  not.' 

'  You  are  mistaken.  I  will  ask  her.  I  will  go  away  when 
she  tells  me  to  go.  Call  her,  if  you  are  loyal  and  a  gentle- 
man.' 

The  old  lord,  challenged  in  the  name  of  honour,  got  up, 
rang  the  bell,  telling  Giovanni  to  send  in  his  daughter. 
The  two  enemies  stood  in  silence  until  she  came  in.  She 
had  got  back  all  her  calm  with  the  facility  of  all  very  nervous 
temperaments,  but  a  glance  at  the  two  she  loved  disturbed 
her  mind  at  once. 

'  I  leave  the  word  to  you,'  said  the  doctor  politely,  bowing 
to  the  Marquis. 

'  Bianca  Maria,'  the  other  began,  in  a  solemn  voice,  '  Dr. 
Amati  says  he  loves  you.  Did  you  know  that  ?' 

'  Yes,  father.' 

'  Did  he  tell  you  ?' 

'  Yes,  he  did." 

18— 2 


276  THE  LAND  OF  COCKA  YNE 

1  Did  you  allow  him  to  tell  you  ?' 

'  Yes  ;  I  listened  to  him.' 

'  You  have  committed  a  great  fault,  Bianca  Maria.' 

'  We  are  all  apt  to  do  that,'  she  said  in  a  low  tone,  look- 
ing at  Amati  to  gain  courage. 

'  But  there  is  something  much  worse.  He  says  that  you  love 
him.  I  told  him  that  he  lied — that  you  could  not  love  him.' 

'  Why  did  you  call  him  a  liar  ?' 

'  Can  you  possibly  ask  me,  Bianca  Maria  ?  Is  it  possible 
that  you  are  so  lost  to  all  sense  of  shame  and  modesty  as  to 
love  him  and  tell  him  so  ?' 

'  My  mother  loved  you  also,  and  told  you  so  :  she  was  a 
modest  woman.' 

'  Keep  to  the  point — do  not  call  witnesses.  Answer  me, 
your  father.  Do  you  love  this  doctor  ?' 

'  Yes,  I  love  him,'  she  said,  opening  out  her  arms. 

'  I  will  never  forgive  you  for  saying  so,  Bianca  Maria!' 

'  May  God  be  more  merciful  than  you,  father !' 

'  God  punishes  disobedient  children.  Dr.  Antonio  Amati 
asked  me  for  your  hand.  I  said  "  No"  :  "  No"  now,  to- 
morrow— for  ever  "  No  "  !' 

'  You  do  not  wish  me  to  marry  Dr.  Amati,  then  ?' 

'  No,  I  do  not.     In  reality  you  do  not  wish  it,  either.' 

She  did  not  answer  ;  two  big  tears  rolled  down  her  cheeks. 

'  Answer,  my  lady,'  said  Amati,  in  so  anguished  a  tone 
that  the  poor  girl  shivered  with  grief. 

'  I  have  nothing  to  say.' 

'  But  did  you  not  say  that  you  loved  me  ?' 

'  Yes,  I  said  so ;  I  repeat  it — I  will  always  love  you.' 

'  Still,  you  refuse  me  ?' 

'  I  do  not  refuse  you.     It  is  my  father  who  rejects  you.' 

'  But  you  are  free  ;  you  are  not  a  slave.  Girls  have  a  right 
to  choose.  I  am  an  honest  man.' 

'  You  are  the  best,  truest  man  I  have  ever  known,'  said 
she,  clasping  her  fragile  hands,  as  if  in  prayer.  '  But  my 
father  will  not  allow  me  :  I  must  obey.' 

'  You  know  you  are  causing  me  the  greatest  sorrow  of  my 
life?' 

« I  know,  but  I  must  obey.' 

*  Do  you  know  you  are  breaking  my  life  ?' 

« I  know,  but  ...  I  cannot  do  otherwise.  Mother  would 
curse  me  from  heaven,  father  would  curse  me  on  earth.  I 
know  it  all :  I  must  obey.' 


SACRILEGE— LOWS  DREAM  FLED  277 

'  Will  you  give  up  health,  happiness,  and  love  ?' 

'  I  give  it  up  out  of  obedience.' 

'  So  be  it,'  he  cried  out,  with  a  quick  gesture,  as  if  he  were 
throwing  off  all  his  weakness.  '  We  will  only  say  one  word 
more.  Good-bye.' 

'  Will  you  never  come  back  ?  Are  you  going  away  ?' 
said  she,  shaking  like  a  tree  under  a  tempest. 

'  I  must  go.     Good-bye  !' 

'  Are  you  going  ?' 

'  Yes ;  good-bye.' 

'  Will  you  never  return  ?' 

'  Never.' 

She  looked  at  her  father.  He  made  no  sign.  But  she 
felt  so  desperate  for  herself  and  for  Antonio  Amati  that  she 
made  another  trial. 

'  A  little  while  ago,  father,  you  promised  me,  in  a  time  of 
terror  and  repentance,  to  do  whatever  I  wanted.  I  ask  you 
to  do  this  one  thing.  It  is  this  :  let  me  marry  Antonio 
Amati.  A  gentleman's  word,  a  Cavalcanti's,  is  sacred.  Will 
you  break  it  ?' 

'  I  have  my  reasons — God  sees  them,'  the  Marquis  said 
mysteriously. 

'  Do  you  refuse  ?' 

'  For  ever.' 

'  Would  nothing  influence  you — neither  our  prayers,  nor 
your  love  for  me,  nor  my  mother's  name — would  nothing 
induce  you  to  consent  ?' 

'  Nothing.' 

'  He  says  "  No,"  love,'  she  whispered,  turning,  looking 
around  her  with  a  wandering  eye.  But  Antonio  Amati  was 
too  mortally  wounded  to  feel  compassion  for  another's  suffer- 
ing. Now  one  single  wish  possessed  him,  that  of  all  strong 
minds,  to  lock  up  the  great  catastrophe  of  his  life,  scorning 
barren  sympathy,  and  fly  to  solitude.  He  needed  darkness, 
silence,  a  place  to  hide,  to  weep  in,  to  cry  out  in  his  sorrow. 
The  girl  before  him  was  the  image  of  desolation,  but  he  saw 
nothing,  felt  nothing  :  compassion  had  gone  out  of  his  heart ; 
he  felt  all  the  unforgiving  selfishness  of  great  suffering. 
'  My  love,  love  !'  she  still  repeated,  trying  to  give  expression 
to  the  anguish  of  her  passion. 

'  Do  not  say  that,  Bianca  Maria,'  he  said,  with  the  bitter 
grin  of  the  disappointed  man  ;  '  it  is  no  use — I  do  not  ask 
you  for  it.  We  have  spoken  too  much.  I  must  go.' 


278  THE  LAND  OF  COCK  A  YNE 

'  Stay  another  minute,'  she  said,  as  if  it  meant  putting  off 
death  for  a  little  while. 

«  No,  no — at  once.  Good-bye,  Bianca  Maria.'  He  bowed 
low  to  the  Marquis. 

The  cruel,  impassible  old  man,  whom  nothing  would 
move,  for  his  eyes  saw  nothing  but  his  mad  vision,  returned 
his  bow.  When  the  doctor  passed  in  front  of  the  girl  to 
leave  the  room  she  held  out  her  hand  humbly,  but  he  did 
not  take  it.  She  made  a  resigned  gesture,  and  looked 
at  him  with  as  much  passion  as  an  exile  for  ever  banished 
from  his  country  can  express.  It  was  no  time  for  words 
or  greeting ;  divided  by  violence,  they  were  leaving  each 
other  for  ever  ;  words  and  greetings  were  of  no  use  now. 
He  went  away,  followed  by  Bianca  Maria's  magnetic  gaze, 
without  turning  back,  going  away  alone  to  his  bitter  destiny. 
She  listened  longingly  for  the  last  sound  of  the  beloved  foot- 
step, that  she  would  never  hear  again.  She  heard  the 
entrance  door  shut  quietly,  like  a  secret  prison  door.  All 
was  ended,  then  !  Her  father  sat  down  in  a  big  chair, 
thoughtful  but  easy,  leaning  his  forehead  on  his  hand. 
Quietly  she  came  to  kneel  by  him,  and,  bending  her  head, 
said: 

'  Bless  me.' 

'God  bless  you — bless  you,  Bianca  Maria!'  said  the 
Marquis  de  Formosa  piously. 

'  Your  daughter  is  dead,'  she  whispered  ;  and,  stretching 
out  her  arms,  she  fell  back,  livid,  cold,  motionless. 


CHAPTER   XVI 

PASQUALINO    DE    FEO's    WILL 

DON  GENNARO  PARASCANDOLO,  the  money-lender,  had  for 
some  time  past  been  coming  very  often  to  the  big  gateway 
in  Nardones  Road.  He  went  up  the  big  stairs  to  the  second 
floor,  where  he  enjoyed  real  love  with  a  poor  good  girl,  a  flower 
of  delicacy  and  innocence  he  had  found  on  a  doorstep  one 
evening.  The  wretched  girl  was  just  going  to  ruin.  He, 
with  his  usual  money-lender's  prudence,  had  made  her 
believe  he  was  a  poor  clerk,  a  widower  with  no  children, 
who  would  certainly  marry  her  if  she  proved  good  and 
faithful. 

The  unlucky  Felicetta,  whose  name  was  a  mockery,  lived 
like  a  recluse,  served  by  a  rough  girl,  her  only  companion. 
She  spent  her  time  longing  for  her  lord  and  master's 
presence,  though  she  did  not  even  know  his  real  name ; 
and,  in  spite  of  a  physical  distaste,  she  was  full  of  gratitude 
to  this  good  Don  Gennaro,  who  had  freed  her  from  the 
danger  of  a  dreadful  fall  by  promising  to  marry  her  when, 
later  on,  she  had  ended  her  probation  of  virtue  and  faith- 
fulness. She  was  a  tiny,  neat  little  woman,  with  rather 
fine  features,  and  a  quantity  of  fair  hair,  too  great  a  weight 
for  her  small  head.  Cast  out  on  the  world  by  a  curious 
fate,  she  would  certainly  have  fallen  into  an  abyss  if  she 
had  not  met  at  a  decisive  moment  Don  Gennaro,  who 
spoke  to  her  kindly,  gave  her  something  to  eat,  took  her  to 
an  inn,  and  finally  hired  a  little  flat  for  her  in  Nardones 
Road,  where  she  spent  her  time  crocheting  and  getting  her 
humble  marriage  outfit  ready,  expecting  Don  Gennaro's  visits 
daily,  and  smiling  to  him  with  lips  and  eyes,  like  the  good 
girl  she  was!  Besides,  the  money-lender,  who  took  off  his 
diamond  rings  and  gold  studs  when  he  went  to  see  her,  was 
quite  paternal  with  her.  Every  little  gift— for  he  kept  her  in 
decent  comfort  only — was  made  so  pleasantly  that  it  brought 
tears  to  Felicetta's  eyes.  Though  he  was  her  lover,  Don 


280  THE  LAND  OF  COCKA  YNE 

Gennaro  treated  her  so  respectfully  that  she  went  pondering 
in  her  innocent,  grateful  heart  how  she  could  show  her 
gratitude  and  affection. 

Don  Gennaro,  the  hard  money-lender,  who  had  seen  so 
much  weeping  and  despair  without  troubling  himself,  was 
very  tender  with  her.  He  often  spoke  sadly  to  her  of  his 
two  handsome  sons  who  had  gone  to  the  dark  world  of 
spirits.  He  got  sentimental,  and  brought  flowers  like  a 
timid  young  lover,  asking  her  to  pray  for  him ;  also  for  his 
dead  little  ones,  he  added,  wishing  to  join  these  two  loves 
that  were  so  curiously  different. 

1  For  them  it  is  no  use,'  replied  Felicetta  humbly  ;  '  they 
are  angels.' 

Little  by  little  Don  Gennaro  had  gone  deeper  into  this 
love-affair,  more  than  he  would  have  desired,  still  using  all 
precautions,  so  that  Felicetta  should  find  out  nothing  about 
him,  and  no  one  should  know  about  his  love-affair  with  the 
poor  girl.  He  could  not  restrain  himself.  His  man's  heart 
of  ripe  years,  familiar  with  life,  flamed  with  youthful  passion. 
He  came  every  day  now  to  Nardones  Road,  changing  the 
time,  but  spending  long  hours  in  Felicetta's  simple,  loving 
company.  At  the  end  of  that  stormy  summer  he  had  given 
up  his  usual  autumn  trip,  and  was  forgetting  his  precautions, 
bringing  gifts  to  the  girl,  who  took  them  rather  astonished ; 
but  he  explained  he  had  just  succeeded  to  a  little  money. 

'  Then,  we  will  get  married,'  the  young  woman  said 
timidly,  for  she  felt  her  bad  position. 

'  I  am  getting  my  papers  sent  from  my  village,'  Don 
Gennaro  answered,  sighing,  regretting  to  the  bottom  of  his 
heart  he  had  a  wife. 

But  one  holiday,  after  taking  a  few  turns  in  Toledo  Street, 
when  he  had  gone  down  by  Sant'  Anna  di  Palazzo  to  Nar- 
dones Road,  carrying  a  bag  of  sweets  in  his  hand  for  his 
lady-love,  as  he  was  going  up  the  stairs,  he  heard  a  sort 
of  call  or  whistle  behind  him,  evidently  to  make  him  turn 
his  head.  He  did  turn,  though  he  could  not  quite  make  out 
if  it  was  a  whistle  or  a  loud  signal  that  had  called  his  atten- 
tion. It  had  been  a  mysterious  call,  that  was  all,  one  of 
those  voices  that  come  from  the  soul.  However  much  he 
looked  round,  above  and  beneath,  going  close  to  the  railing, 
he  saw  nothing,  could  find  out  nothing.  Annoyed  at  being 
detained  on  that  stair,  where  he  was  always  afraid  of  being 
discovered,  he  hurried  into  Felicetta's  rooms.  Still,  all  the 


PASQUALINO  DE  FEO'S  WILL  281 

time  of  the  visit  he  was  put  out ;  he  thought,  secrecy  being 
the  foundation  of  his  happiness,  it  had  crumbled  away  with 
that  voice  calling  to  him.  Indeed,  next  day,  right  under  the 
entrance,  he  met  the  Marquis  di  Formosa  coming  down  the 
small  stair,  looking  as  if  he  were  in  a  dream.  Really,  they 
were  not  on  speaking  terms  now,  though  they  knew  each 
other  ;  but  that  day,  both  feeling  put  out,  they  stopped  in 
front  of  each  other,  watching  one  another. 

1  Busy  as  usual,'  the  Marquis  di  Formosa  muttered,  in  a 
hoarse  voice  that  gave  an  idea  of  emotion,  for  it  looked  as 
if  rage  had  made  him  lose  his  voice. 

4  Yes,  like  yourself,'  Don  Gennaro  replied  darkly. 

4  I  have  no  business  to  do,'  Formosa  replied,  in  a  still 
more  undecided  and  shy  manner.  '  Is  Signora  Parascandolo 
well  ?' 

4  She  is  quite  well,'  Parascandolo  said,  at  once  suspecting 
something  under  the  question.  4  How  is  Lady  Bianca 
Maria  ?' 

4  She  is  rather  in  poor  health,'  the  old  man  said,  hanging 
his  head. 

*  Good-morning,  my  lord,'  Parascandolo  answered  at  once, 
taking  the  opportunity  to  go  off. 

4  Good-morning,  sir,'  Formosa  said,  touching  his  hat,  and 
looking  after  the  usurer  mechanically. 

He  went  slowly  up  the  big  stair,  frightfully  bored  by  that 
meeting,  thinking  at  once  he  must  change  houses  and  carry 
Felicetta  off  to  a  far-away  part ;  and  he  slackened  his  steps 
to  see  if  the  Marquis  were  asking  the  porter  where  Don 
Gennaro  Parascandolo  was  going  to.  But  Formosa  had 
gone  off.  When  the  usurer  got  to  the  second  landing,  again 
he  heard  a  whiff ;  a  flash  passed  before  his  eyes,  as  if  the 
mystical  warning  was  being  repeated  persistently  because  he 
had  taken  no  notice  the  first  time.  Again  holding  on  to  the 
railings,  he  thought  over  where  that  call  could  come  from, 
and  told  himself  he  must  be  dreaming,  as  there  was  nothing 
about.  That  love,  carefully  hidden,  made  him  as  super- 
stitious as  a  woman. 

4  There  must  be  spirits  in  this  house,'  he  said  to  Felicetta 
during  his  call,  as  he  could  not  get  over  his  absent-minded- 
ness. '  Twice  in  coming  upstairs  I  felt  as  if  someone  was 
calling  me,  and  I  could  not  make  out  where  the  voice  came 
from,  or  if  it  really  was  a  voice.' 

4  Do  you  believe  in  spirits,  then  ?' 


282  THE  LAND  OF  COCKAYNE 

'  Well,  who  can  tell  ?' 

'  This  house  has  certainly  a  queer  lot  of  lodgers,'  said  the 
girl.  '  Day  and  night  a  number  of  suspicious-looking  people 
come  and  go.  The  other  evening,  as  I  was  watering  my 
flowers  on  my  balcony,  I  thought  I  heard  cries  and  com- 
plaints coming  from  the  first-floor.  Then  all  was  silent ;  I 
heard  no  more.' 

'  They  must  have  been  spirits,'  said  Don  Gennaro, 
laughing  unwillingly.  '  Would  you  like  to  go  to  another 
house  ?' 

'  Yes,  very  much — a  small  house,  with  more  sun.' 

'  On  the  Vittorio  Emanuele  Corso  would  you  like?' 

'  It  would  be  too  grand  for  me.' 

Don  Gennaro  was  still  thoughtful  when  he  went  away. 
As  he  was  on  the  first-floor  landing,  he  thought  he  saw  two 
people  he  knew  go  down  the  small  stair — the  advocate 
Marzano  and  Ninetto  Costa.  They,  heated  in  argument, 
did  not  see  or  pretended  not  to  see  him,  because  they  owed 
him  a  lot  of  money,  and  he  held  a  heap  of  stamped  paper 
against  them.  But  the  money-lender  was  put  out ;  he  felt 
a  mystery  growing  around  him,  while  a  burning  curiosity 
took  hold  of  him  to  know  the  truth.  So  that  the  next  day, 
after  wandering  about  all  morning  to  find  a  new  house  for 
Felicetta,  having  found  her  a  nook  in  that  open  quarter 
between  Vittorio  Emanuele  Corso  and  Piedi  Grotta,  as  he 
was  coming  back  to  tell  her  so,  he  stood  on  the  stair  on 
purpose,  waiting.  And  the  call,  the  fluttering,  the  secret 
voice,  was  heard  like  a  suppressed  summons.  He  peered 
about ;  this  time  he  saw.  He  saw  two  windows  of  the  flat 
that  looked  on  to  the  great  door,  one  with  closed  shutters, 
the  other  of  obscured  glass  half  open.  There,  just  for  a 
second,  through  the  glass,  an  emaciated,  despairing  face 
showed  that  cast  an  imploring  look  at  him,  then  disappeared, 
and  a  thin  hand  and  white  handkerchief  waved  to  call  him. 
Then  the  hand  went  out  of  sight.  The  darkened  window 
was  slammed  violently,  and  the  shutters  were  closed  as  on 
the  other  window.  Don  Gennaro  turned  round  to  go  down 
at  once  to  the  isolated  flat,  but  then  he  stood  still,  confused. 
What  did  it  matter  to  him  what  was  going  on  there  ?  Who 
was  it  who  showed  himself  imprisoned  inside  there  ? 
He  remembered  his  features  vaguely,  though  he  barely  had 
seen  them.  He  did  not  know  him.  It  had  to  do  with  a 
stranger;  but  whether  he  was  a  stranger  or  not,  Don 


PASOUALINO  DE  FEffS  WILL  283 

Gennaro's  mature  prudence  took  the  alarm.  Perhaps  it 
would  be  best  to  go  and  give  the  alarm  at  the  police  court. 
He  thought  better  of  that,  too  ;  for  many  reasons  it  was 
best  to  have  nothing  to  do  with  the  police.  But  the  idea 
that  someone  was  shut  up,  calling  for  help,  for  days  past, 
who  would  perish  perhaps  without  his  help,  put  him  in  a 
great  state.  A  mysterious  crime  was  going  on ;  his 
Southerner's  curiosity  burned  within  him,  and  his  coolness 
as  a  man  who  had  seen  many  ugly  scenes  encouraged  him 
to  help  the  unlucky  man.  At  last  he  went  downstairs,  and, 
crossing  the  small  yard,  he  went  up  the  damp,  broken  stairs. 
After  thinking  a  minute,  he  knocked  and  rang.  The  little 
bell  tinkled  mournfully,  but  no  sound  came  from  inside.  He 
knocked  again  ;  not  a  sound.  Then  time  about  with  ringing 
the  bell,  he  knocked  with  his  ebony  stick.  The  silence 
was  like  that  of  an  empty  house.  Twice  he  stooped  to  the 
keyhole,  and  said :  '  Open,  by  Gad  !  or  I  will  go  and  call 
the  police.'  The  second  time,  when  he  had  shouted  louder, 
he  thought  he  heard  a  whisper,  and  he  waited  again.  No 
one  came  to  open  at  the  loud  ring  he  gave.  Then  he  began 
to  go  downstairs,  determined  to  call  the  police  authorities. 
It  was  on  the  last  step  that  he  again  met  the  Marquis  di 
Formosa.  The  latter  raised  his  head  and  grew  pale  as  he 
recognised  Don  Gennaro.  Still,  he  had  the  courage  to  ask  : 

'  How  come  you  here  ?' 

'  There  is  something  wrong  going  on  up  there,  my  lord,' 
said  the  money-lender  coldly,  lighting  a  cigarette.  '  I  am 
going  to  a  magistrate.' 

'  Why  should  you  call  in  a  magistrate  ?'  the  old  man 
stammered,  in  a  nervous  way. 

'  I  tell  you  that  up  there  a  disgraceful  thing  has  happened, 
or  will  happen,  and,  as  I  am  an  honest  man,  I  cannot  allow 
it.  Will  you  come  with  me  to  the  magistrate?'  and  he 
looked  him  straight  in  the  eyes. 

'  Don  Gennaro,  don't  let  us  exaggerate.  Perhaps  it  is  a 
joke  among  friends,  or  a  just  punishment,'  said  Formosa, 
getting  excited. 

'  I  do  not  wish  to  know  anything  about  it.  I  only  know 
that  a  man  asked  my  help.  I  know  I  knocked,  and  they 
would  not  open.' 

'  What  exaggerated  talk  are  you  going  on  with  ?' 

'  Something  bad  is  going  on.' 

1  We  will  go  upstairs.     I  will  induce  them  to  open,'  said 


284  THE  LAND  OF  COCK  A  YNE 

the  Marquis,  making  up  his  mind  to  have  as  little  of  a 
catastrophe  as  possible,  as  it  had  to  be. 

Silently  they  went  up  together.  Formosa  gave  two  long 
rings,  the  known  signal. 

'Who  is  it?'  asked  a  muffled  voice,  speaking  through 
the  keyhole. 

'  It  is  I,  doctor  ;  open,  please.' 

'  But  you  are  not  alone.' 

'  It  doesn't  matter — open.' 

'  If  you  are  not  alone  I  will  not  open,  as  you  know,' 
Trifari  said  angrily  from  inside. 

'  Open  the  door  ;  it  will  be  better  for  everyone,  doctor,' 
the  Marquis  di  Formosa  negotiated.  '  If  you  do  not  open 
the  ruin  will  be  greater.  Don  Gennaro  Parascandolo  here 
knows  all ;  he  wants  to  go  to  a  magistrate.' 

'  At  any  rate,  I  am  not  going  away,'  Parascandolo  said 
from  outside.  '  I  will  only  go  for  the  purpose  of  calling  the 
police.' 

'Oh  dear!  oh  dear!'  Formosa  muttered  with  a  senile 
quiver. 

A  step  was  heard  going  and  coming,  then  a  slow  rattle  of 
chain-links,  and  Trifari's  face,  with  long,  red  hair  growing 
unevenly  on  it,  showed  in  a  slit  of  the  door. 

'Open,  open!'  said  the  money-lender,  grinning,  going 
on,  without  seeing  the  bloodthirsty  glance  Trifari  cast  on 
him. 

On  going  in,  a  smell  of  smoky  oil  caught  the  nostrils,  of 
cooking  done  in  an  airless  place,  of  not  very  clean  people, 
who  have  lived  shut  up  for  a  long  time.  The  front-room 
and  the  so-called  dining-room  were  dirtier  than  ever,  with 
dust,  lampblack,  bread-crumbs,  and  fruit-skins.  The  house 
was  like  an  animals'  lair,  when  they  have  been  shut  up  in 
their  dens  for  days  and  weeks  from  fear  of  the  huntsman. 
On  a  chair,  pale,  with  hollow  cheeks,  pinched  nostrils, 
bloodless  ears,  his  blue  lips  half  open,  as  if  he  could  hardly 
breathe,  the  medium  lay  stretched  out,  his  limbs  flaccid,  his 
beard  long  and  dirty,  his  hair  hanging  in  curls  on  his  neck. 

Trifari,  to  make  him  stand  up,  gave  him  two  blows,  one 
on  the  arm,  the  other  on  the  shoulder.  It  brought  quite  a 
new  sort  of  doleful  expression  on  the  unlucky  impostor's 
face. 

*  What  are  you  doing?  Are  you  not  ashamed  ?'  shouted 
Don  Gennaro,  quite  scandalized. 


PASQUALINO  DE  F£O'S   WILL  285 

'  He  treats  me  so  at  all  hours  of  the  day,'  the  medium 
muttered  in  a  thread  of  a  voice. 

'  Keep  up  your  courage ;  you  will  come  away  with  me,' 
said  the  money-lender,  handing  him  a  flask  of  brandy  that 
he  always  carried. 

'  I  shall  not  have  the  strength,  sir,'  said  the  other  feebly. 
'  They  have  killed  me,  shut  up  here,  with  no  air  nor  light, 
with  this  stink  that  makes  me  sick.  I  have  generally  fasted 
or  got  poor  food,  and  been  worried  all  the  time  to  give 
lottery  numbers.  I  was  often  beaten  by  this  hyena  of  a 
doctor,  that  the  Lord  has  brought  into  existence,  for  my 
sins.  It  is  agonizing,  sir  ;  I  am  in  agony.' 

'  How  could  you  do  that  to  a  man — a  fellow-Christian  ?' 
Parascandolo  asked  severely,  looking  at  the  other  two. 

'  See  who  is  preaching  !'  shouted  Trifari.  His  impudence 
was  indomitable. 

'  You,  my  lord,  a  gentleman  !'  said  Parascandolo,  making 
out  he  would  not  speak  to  Trifari. 

'  What  would  you  have  ?  Passion  carried  me  away,' 
said  the  old  man,  quite  humiliated,  shivering  from  other 
remembrances  also. 

Just  then  came  in  at  the  door,  which  had  been  left  open, 
Colaneri,  the  viperish  professor,  and  Don  Crescenzio  the 
lottery-banker.  On  seeing  a  stranger,  recognising  Don 
Gennaro,  they  understood  all,  and  looked  at  each  other 
dismayed,  especially  Don  Crescenzio,  who  was  a  Govern- 
ment official,  as  he  said. 

The  money-lender  went  on  smoking  coolly,  whilst  the 
medium,  getting  weaker,  let  his  head  fall  back  on  the  chair. 
The  house,  which  had  been  a  prison  for  a  month  now,  had 
an  ugly,  sordid  look,  and  the  artificial  light  of  the  lamp  in 
full  day  wrung  the  heart  like  the  wax  tapers  round  a  bier. 
Really,  Don  Pasqualino  looked  like  a  corpse. 

'  Have  so  many  of  you  set  on  one  man?'  the  money-lender 
asked,  without  directly  addressing  anyone. 

'Why  did  he  not  give  the  lottery  numbers  at  once?' 
yelled  Colaneri,  pulling  at  his  collar  with  a  priestly  gesture. 
'  No  one  would  have  done  anything  to  him  then.' 

'You  could  be  sent  to  the  galleys  for  this,  you  know,' 
said  the  usurer  rather  icily. 

'  Don't  you  speak  of  the  galleys  ;  you  ought  to  have  been 
there  long  ago !'  hissed  the  ex-priest. 

The  other  shrugged  his  shoulders,  then  said : 


286  THE  LAND  OF  COCKAYNE 

1  Don  Pasqualino,  have  you  the  strength  to  get  up  ?  I 
want  to  take  you  away.' 

The  four  looked  at  each  other,  grown  pale  suddenly.  It 
was  natural  that,  the  thing  being  discovered,  the  medium 
should  go  away ;  but  the  idea  that  he  would  be  taken  away 
to  the  open  air,  free  to  come  and  go,  and  to  tell  what  had 
happened — this  escape  from  persecution  made  them  very 
frightened. 

'  I  have  no  strength  to  move,  sir,'  said  Don  Pasqualino 
complainingly.  '  If  they  wanted  to  kill  me,  they  could  not 
have  found  a  better  way.  God  will  punish  them  ;'  and  he 
sighed  deeply. 

There  were  two  knocks  at  the  door,  and  two  other  couples 
came  in — Ninetto  Costa  and  Marzano,  Gaetano  the  glover 
and  Michele  the  shoeblack.  Not  content  with  coming  every 
day,  every  two  hours,  in  turn,  to  ask  for  lottery  numbers, 
with  the  monotonous  perseverance  of  the  Trappist  monk 
who  says  to  his  fellow,  '  We  must  all  die,'  on  Friday  there 
was  always  a  full  meeting.  Then  it  was  a  case  of  torture 
in  the  mass  ;  it  was  the  reckless  conduct  of  those  fallen  to 
the  bottom  of  the  abyss,  who  still  hope  to  get  up  out  of  it — 
of  those  hardened  by  passion,  who  see  light  no  longer. 
Indeed,  their  cruel  obstinacy  had  increased,  because  of  the 
evil  action  they  were  doing  and  the  persecution  they  had 
carried  out  against  Don  Pasqualino.  Instead  of  feeling 
remorse,  they  were  in  a  frightful  rage,  because  even  their 
violence  had  had  no  effect,  since  not  one  of  the  lottery 
numbers,  whether  given  by  symbol  or  straight  out  by  the 
medium  during  his  imprisonment,  had  come  from  the  urn. 
The  first  cold  douche  on  their  wrongheadedness  came  when 
Don  Gennaro  Parascandolo  arrived.  It  was  only  then  they 
noticed  the  wretchedness  and  dirt  of  the  prison  where  they 
had  kept  the  man  shut  up,  the  cruelty  of  Trifari  the  gaoler's 
face,  and  the  suffering  look  on  the  prisoner's — then  only 
they  understood  that  they  might  be  prosecuted  for  such  a 
crime,  and  that  they  were  at  Don  Pasqualino's  and  Don 
Gennaro's  mercy.  Dumb,  frozen,  amazed,  they  did  not 
even  ask  how  the  prison  had  been  discovered.  They  now 
felt  the  heavy  weight  on  the  heart  that  is  the  first  moral 
personal  punishment  of  sin.  The  Marquis  di  Formosa  was 
the  most  humiliated  of  all ;  he  remembered  he  had  brought 
the  medium  there,  and  he  already  saw  his  name  dragged 
from  the  police-court  to  prison,  then  to  the  assizes.  Now 


PASQUALINO  DE  PRO'S  WILL  287 

the  Cabalists  turned  imploring  looks  on  the  two  arbiters  of 
their  fate.  Don  Gennaro  Parascandolo  methodically  went 
on  smoking. 

'  Above  all,  doctor,'  he  said,  throwing  the  smoke  in  the 
air,  '  put  out  the  light  and  open  the  window.' 

'  I  won't  take  orders  from  you !'  Trifari  shouted.  He 
was  the  only  one  unsubdued ;  he  was  wild  at  his  prey 
escaping. 

'  Do  you  really  want  to  go  to  San  Francesco,'  Para- 
scandolo asked  quietly,  meaning  the  largest  prison  in 
Naples. 

'  They  ought  to  put  you  there!'  yelled  the  liverish  Cabalist, 
who  had  got  half  mad  from  having  to  watch  Don  Pasqua- 
lino. 

'  I  will  wait  till  you  pay  me  the  lot  of  money  you  owe  me,' 
remarked  Parascandolo. 

'  Don't  you  wish  you  may  get  it !'  said  Trifari  impudently. 

'  Someone  will  pay — father  or  mother — to  avoid  a  trial 
for  cheatery,'  the  money-lender  added  without  putting  him- 
self about  at  all. 

All  the  men  looked  at  each  other,  shivering.  Each  of 
them  owed  money  to  the  usurer,  even  Don  Crescenzio. 
The  only  two  who  did  not — Gaetano  and  Michele — were 
worried  as  much  by  Donna  Concetta.  Even  Trifari  held 
his  tongue ;  the  idea  of  being  shamed  in  his  village  before 
those  old  peasants,  whose  secret  plague  he  was,  made  him 
groan  already  like  a  wounded  beast.  Stolidly  he  went 
to  open  the  windows  and  put  out  the  smoking  lamp  that 
gave  out  a  horrid  smell  of  blackened  wick.  The  bystanders' 
eyelids  fluttered  at  that  strong  light  of  day  ;  all  faces  were 
white,  and  the  medium's  was  like  a  dying  man's.  The 
usurer  gave  him  another  sip  of  brandy,  which  he  drank 
drop  by  drop,  being  hardly  able  to  get  it  down. 

'  Now  we  will  call  up  a  cab,'  said  Don  Gennaro. 

'  What !  are  you  going  to  take  him  away  ?'  asked  Ninetto 
Costa  in  despair. 

'  Do  you  want  me  to  leave  him  here  for  you  to  carry  off  a 
corpse  ?' 

'What  an  exaggeration!'  muttered  the  other  vaguely. 
'  Don  Pasqualino  is  accustomed  to  living  shut  up.  .  .  .  You 
are  ruining  us,  Don  Gennaro.' 

'  Think  of  your  other  woes,'  said  the  money-lender 
gravely. 


288  THE  LAND  OF  COCKA  YNE 

The  other,  struck  by  his  words,  said  no  more.  All  of  them 
trembled,  seeing  the  medium  was  trying  to  rise ;  slowly,  lean- 
ing on  the  table,  and  only  by  a  great  effort,  taking  breath 
every  minute,  opening  his  livid  mouth  with  its  blackened 
teeth,  did  he  succeed.  The  enchantment  was  broken  alto- 
gether ;  now  the  medium  was  escaping  for  good.  He  would 
go  to  the  police-court,  and  accuse  them  of  keeping  him  in 
custody — of  cruelty  and  ill-treatment.  But  at  heart  they 
thought  this  of  less  consequence  than  the  medium's  getting 
away,  for,  to  revenge  himself,  he  would  never  give  them 
lottery  numbers  again.  Would  they  were  sent  to  gaol,  if 
only  they  got  right  lottery  numbers,  for  they  would  be  able 
to  corrupt  justice  and  escape.  The  dream  had  fled ;  the 
source  of  riches  was  going,  flying  off.  Nothing,  nothing 
now  would  induce  the  medium  to  give  them  lottery  numbers 
— certain,  infallible  ones.  Every  step  he  tried  to  take  on 
his  thin,  shaky  legs  gave  them  a  pang. 

'  If  you  don't  take  heart,  Don  Pasqualino,  we  shall  stay 
here  till  evening,'  Don  Gennaro  remarked. 

He  was  in  a  hurry  to  be  off.  Indeed,  his  position  among 
them  was  not  very  safe.  All  owed  him  money.  If  they 
had  been  bold  enough  to  carry  out  one  imprisonment,  they 
might  well  carry  out  another  more  useful  and  profitable. 
Don  Gennaro,  indeed,  took  the  command  by  his  coolness 
and  strength,  but  were  not  these  men  desperate  ?  Yet  they 
were  feeling  that  break-up  of  moral  and  bodily  strength, 
that  weakness,  that  comes  to  the  most  finished  scoundrels 
when  they  have  carried  out  some  wicked  deed,  having  put 
all  their  real  and  fictitious  strength  into  the  enterprise  and 
obtained  no  result.  At  any  rate,  it  was  better  to  go  out. 

'  Gentlemen,  I  wish  you  good-morning,'  he  said,  taking 
his  hat  and  cane,  seeing  the  medium  was  scratching  at  his 
coat  with  skinny  hands  to  clean  it. 

'  I  would  like  to  say  a  word  to  each  of  these  gentlemen,' 
the  medium  requested. 

There  was  a  whispering.  All  crowded  round  him  who 
spoke  with  the  spirits,  while  Parascandolo  was  already  in 
the  lobby  and  held  the  door  open  as  a  precaution. 

'  One  at  a  time,'  said  the  medium.  *  It  is  a  kind  of  will 
I  am  making.  I  want  to  leave  a  remembrance  to  every  one.' 

He  took  them  aside  one  by  one  in  the  window  recess. 
He  looked  them  in  the  face  and  touched  their  hands  with 
his  feeble,  cold  fingers.  The  first  was  Ninetto  Costa. 


PASOUALINO  DE  FE&S  WILL  289 

'  Look  here,  Ninetto :  don't  give  up  hope ;  remember, 
there  is  always  a  revolver  for  a  finish  up.' 

'  That  is  true,'  he  said,  trying  to  find  a  number  in  the 
words. 

The  second  was  Colaneri,  the  ex-priest. 

'  There  is  the  gospel  for  you  ;  it  opens  its  arms,'  whispered 
the  medium. 

'  Thank  you  for  reminding  me,'  said  the  other,  half  cheer- 
fully, half  sadly,  taking  the  double  meaning  of  the  advice. 

The  third  was  Gaetano,  the  glover. 

'  Why  are  you  a  married  man  ?  I  would  have  advised 
you  to  marry  Donna  Concetta,  who  has  so  much  money.' 

'  Has  she  a  lot  ?' 

'  Yes,  a  great  deal.' 

'  You  are  right,  it  is  hard  luck.' 

The  fourth  was  Michele,  the  shoeblack,  the  hunchbacked 
dwarf. 

'  If  you  were  not  so  crooked  and  old,  I  would  advise  you 
to  marry  Donna  Caterina,  she  that  has  the  small  lottery.' 

I  But  I  am  crooked,'  said  the  shoeblack  sadly. 
'  Well,  work  hard.' 

The  fifth  was  Marzano,  the  lawyer,  his  head  shaking,  but 
still  burning  with  the  frenzy. 

'  You  know,  thousands  of  sheets  of  stamped  paper  are  sold 
in  Naples  :  why  do  you  not  try  for  a  license  ?' 

He  whispered  rather  than  said  it,  and  the  old  man  looked 
wonderingly,  suspiciously  at  him,  and  went  off  hanging  his 
head. 

The  sixth  that  came  up  was  Dr.  Trifari.  He  hesitated, 
for  he  had  ill-treated  the  medium  too  much  in  the  prison 
days.  Still,  he  was  treated  with  great  civility. 

'  To  get  rid  of  your  worries,  why  do  you  not  sell  all  in 
your  village  and  bring  your  parents  here  ?' 

I 1  never  thought  of  it.     I  will  consider  it.' 

The  seventh  was  Don  Crescenzio,  the  lottery-banker  at 
Nunzio  Lane,  whom  Don  Pasqualino  had  had  a  long 
intimacy  with.  They  spoke  in  a  whisper.  No  one  could 
hear  what  was  said. 

'  How  foolish  Government  is !'  said  the  medium. 
-'What  is  that  you  are  saying?'    cried  out   the  other, 
alarmed. 

'  I  say,  how  stupid  Government  is.' 

'  I  don't  know  what  you  mean.' 

19 


290  THE  LAND  OF  COCKA  YNE 

'  You  do  perfectly.' 

The  eighth  to  come  up  was  the  Marquis  di  Formosa. 
He  was  rather  timid,  too,  feeling  that  he  had  done  most 
wrong  to  Don  Pasqualino. 

'  The  spirit  spoke  to  me  again,  my  lord.' 

'  What  did  he  say  ?' 

'  He  told  me  that  Donna  Bianca  Maria  Cavalcanti  was 
a  perfectly  lucid  soul,  but  that,  as  I  said,  man's  touch 
would  defile  her ;  it  would  make  her  obtuse  and  unlucky, 
unable  to  have  further  visions.' 

'  Donna  Bianca  shall  die  a  virgin.  Tell  the  spirit  so,'  the 
old  man  said  proudly. 

'  Well,  Don  Pasqualino,  are  we  to  stay  here  till  evening  ?' 
said  the  money-lender,  coming  in.  '  Have  you  finished  with 
these  gentlemen  ?' 

'  Yes,  I  have  done,'  said  the  other  in  a  strange  voice,  as 
if  he  had  got  back  his  strength  in  some  queer  way. 

While  the  medium  looked  in  his  pockets  to  see  if  he  had  a 
torn  handkerchief  and  a  dirty  pack  of  cards  he  always  carried 
with  him,  and  then  put  on  his  shabby  hat,  the  Cabalists  had 
gathered  in  a  group,  but  they  were  not  speaking.  What  he 
had  said  in  its  true  and  symbolical  sense  as  a  hint,  a  sug- 
gestion, had  deeply  moved  them. 

'  Gentlemen,  may  God  forgive  you !'  the  medium  cried 
out  in  a  queer  way,  with  a  slight  smile,  as  he  went  off. 

They  hardly  greeted  him,  but  glanced  at  him  remorse- 
fully. None  of  them  dared  make  an  excuse  for  the  ill  they 
had  done  him  ;  each  of  them  felt  the  nail  riveted  that  the 
medium  had  driven  in.  The  two  went  down  the  small  stair 
very  slowly,  for  the  medium  often  threatened  to  fall.  The 
usurer  did  not  go  so  far  as  to  offer  him  his  arm  ;  the  medium 
was  much  too  dirty.  When  he  came  to  the  doorway  and 
looked  around,  drinking  in  the  free  air,  tears  came  to  his 
eyes. 

'  I  thought  I  would  never  get  out  alive,'  he  said  as  he  got 
to  the  carriage. 

'  Where  do  you  wish  to  go  ?'  asked  Parascandolo. 

'  To  the  police-court,'  said  the  other  in  a  feeble  voice  again. 

He  was  spread  out  in  the  carriage  like  a  serious  invalid. 
Don  Gennaro  frowned  rather,  and,  not  to  make  people  stare, 
he  had  the  carriage  hood  put  up.  They  went  on  to  Con- 
cezione  Street. 

'  Do  you  intend  to  denounce  them  ?'  Parascandolo  asked. 


PASQUALINO  DE  FE&S  WILL  291 

'  You  do  not  know  how  they  have  tortured  me,'  muttered 
the  other,  knocking  his  head  against  the  carriage  hood 
whenever  there  was  a  jostle,  as  if  he  could  not  keep  his  head 
straight  on  his  shoulders. 

'  So  you  will  take  them  up,  will  you  ?' 

'For  thirty  days  I,  an  unhappy  man,  in  bad  health,  was 
shut  up  with  no  air  nor  light  and  a  stinking  oil-lamp,  whilst 
they  who  behaved  so  badly  to  me  took  their  exercise.' 

'  Why  did  you  not  give  them  the  lottery  numbers  ?' 

'  Just  because '  said  the  medium  mysteriously. 

'  Don  Pasqualino,  you  don't  know  the  lottery  numbers,' 
said  Don  Gennaro,  laughing. 

'  What  does  it  matter  to  you  ?' 

'  Nothing  at  all ;  but  you  must  be  frank  with  me.' 

'  Yes,  sir,  yes,  sir,'  said  the  medium  humbly ;  '  but  why 
did  they  endanger  my  life  ?  What  harm  had  I  done 
them  ?' 

'  Don  Pasqualino,  you  ate  up  several  thousand  francs 
belonging  to  these  gentlemen,  to  my  knowledge,'  Para- 
scandolo  went  on  in  the  same  laughing  tone. 

'  It  was  all  charity,  sir — charity.' 

'  Really,  was  it  all  charity  ?'  Don  Gennaro  sneered 
wickedly. 

'  There  was  some  little  thing  for  myself,  sir,'  Don  Pas- 
qualino sighed  out,  with  a  flash  of  malicious  amusement  in 
his  eyes. 

'  Then,  there  is  no  use  in  going  to  the  police-court  ?' 

'  We  had  better  go  there,  all  the  same ;  you  will  be 
satisfied  with  me.' 

They  got  down  at  the  big  gateway  in  Concezione  Street, 
where  the  guardians  of  the  public  safety  were  going  and 
coming.  It  was  a  tremendous  effort  to  the  medium  to  go 
up  the  stairs ;  he  lost  his  breath  at  every  step. 

'  Rather  an  effort,  eh  ?'  the  usurer  said  more  than  once. 

'  Don't  leave  me,  don't  desert  me !'  the  medium  sighed 
out. 

At  last  they  got  to  the  first-floor,  where  Don  Gennaro, 
respectfully  saluted  by  the  ushers,  asked  if  there  was  a 
magistrate  present.  There  was  not.  The  head-clerk  was 
there ;  he  had  them  shown  in  at  once,  and  was  most  cere- 
monious. 

'  Here  is  Signor  Pasqualino  De  Feo ;  he  wants  to  make  a 
statement,'  said  the  money-lender,  setting  to  smoking  a 

19 — 2 


292  THE  LAND  OF  COCKAYNE 

cigarette,  after  offering  the  head-clerk  one,  looking  the 
medium  straight  in  the  eyes. 

'  I  wished  to  know,'  said  he  feebly,  '  if  anyone  has  come 
to  say  I  had  disappeared.' 

The  inspector  took  a  thick  ledger,  and  turned  it  over  as 
he  smoked. 

'  Yes,  sir,'  he  said.  '  Chiarastella  De  Feo,  living  in 
Centograde  Lane,  wife  of  Pasqualino  De  Feo,  stated  that 
her  husband  was  unaccountably  absent.  She  feared  im- 
prisonment or  misfortune.' 

'  What  misfortune,  what  imprisonment,  could  there  be  ?' 
the  medium  called  out,  smiling  ironically.  '  Women  always 
talk  nonsense.' 

'  She  said  it  had  happened  to  you  before,  though  she  could 
not  state  under  what  circumstances.' 

'  Why  should  they  have  shut  me  up  ?' 

'  To  drag  lottery  numbers  from  you.' 

'  Did  my  wife  say  that  I  knew  lottery  numbers  ?'  said  the 
medium  with  a  little  laugh. 

'  Do  not  believe  it,  inspector ;  it  is  nonsense,'  Para- 
scandolo  added  laughingly. 

'  I  wish  to  state,  to  avoid  mistakes,  that,  being  at  Palma 
Campania,  at  Don  Gennaro  Parascandolo's  villa  there,  I 
was  so  ill  I  had  to  stay  there  a  month  without  being  able  to 
write  to  my  wife.  Then  I  thought  every  day  I  would  soon 
be  able  to  return.' 

'  You  witness  that  this  is  true,  do  you,  sir  ?'  said  the  in- 
spector carelessly,  not  giving  it  any  importance. 

*  Yes,  I  do,  sir.' 

'  Then  it  is  all  right.  He  would  have  given  you  lottery 
numbers  during  this  month's  illness  of  his,  I  suppose  ?'  asked 
the  police  official,  still  grinning. 

'  Of  course  he  did,'  said  Parascandolo,  in  high  good- 
humour. 

'  But  what  use  are  they  to  you  ?  With  a  poor  employe 
like  me  it  would  be  different.' 

'  Don  Pasqualino,  if  you  are  strong  enough,  give  the  in- 
spector lottery  numbers.' 

«  You  are  making  a  fool  of  me,'  muttered  the  medium. 

They  said  good-bye,  and  the  inspector  advised  De 
Feo  to  go  to  his  wife's  house  at  once,  as  she  would  be 
anxious. 

'  Did  you  not  see  that  I  did  as  you  wished,  sir  ?     I  forgave 


PASQUALINO  DE  F£0'S  WILL  293 

those  who  had  offended  me,'  said  Don  Pasqualino  as  .they 
went  downstairs. 

'  You  are  too  good,'  the  other  answered,  rather  ironically. 

*  I  do  not  intend  to  make  a  merit  of  it,  for  there  is  none. 
I  would  never  have  accused  these  gentlemen.' 

'  Ah  !'  said  the  other,  standing  still  for  a  moment.  '  Why 
is  that  ?' 

'  It  would  not  suit  me  to  do  it.' 

*  I  see.     But  why  did  we  come  here,  then  ?' 

'  It  was  necessary  to  make  a  statement,  for  the  police 
were  looking  for  me.' 

'  Is  your  wife  such  a  simpleton  ?' 

'  What !  my  wife  ?  She  is  very  fond  of  me ;  she  is 
nervous  for  me,  and  says  we  must  retire  from  the  profession.' 

'  What  profession  is  it  ?' 

'  Don't  you  know  ?  She  is  the  famous  witch  of  Cento- 
grade,  Chiarastella.' 

1  Ah,  I  remember.  Her  witchcraft  is  like  your  knowing 
lottery  numbers,  is  it  ?' 

'  Her  magic  is  true,'  said  Don  Pasqualino  thoughtfully 
and  sincerely. 

'  And  does  she  believe  in  your  being  a  medium  ?' 

'Yes,  she  does,'  said  the  other,  hanging  his  head.  'My 
wife  is  in  love  with  me.' 

'  In  love  with  you  ?' 

'  Yes,  with  me.' 

'  You  are  a  queer  lot,'  said  the  money-lender  philosophi- 
cally. '  And,  meanwhile,  you  have  saved  the  eight  scoundrels.' 

'  How  have  I  saved  them  ?  Did  you  understand  the 
advice  I  gave  them  all  ?' 

'  No,  I  did  not,'  Don  Gennaro  answered,  surprised  at  the 
malicious  tone  of  his  voice. 

'  I  left  them  each  a  remembrance,'  the  medium  replied,  in 
a  shrill  voice. 

'  Will  they  obey  you,  do  you  think  ?' 

'  As  sure  as  death,'  said  the  medium  dolefully. 

He  bowed  to  Don  Gennaro,  and,  with  renewed  strength, 
went  off  quickly  towards  Municipio  Square.  Parascandolo 
looked  at  him  as  he  went  off,  and  felt  for  the  first  time  a 
shudder  at  cold  malignity. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

BARBASSONE'S  INN — THE  DUEL 

IN  the  little  Barbassone  inn,  on  the  road  that  goes  down 
from  Moiariella  di  Capodimonte  to  Ponte  Rossi,  there  were 
no  customers  that  clear  winter  morning.  It  was  really 
an  outhouse  on  pillars,  roughly  built,  and  on  the  ground- 
floor  there  was  a  big,  smoky  kitchen  with  a  wide,  grimy 
fireplace  and  a  large  hall,  where  rustic  tables  were  set 
out  for  eating  and  drinking.  On  the  upper  floor,  which 
was  reached  by  a  queer  outside  staircase,  the  host  and  his 
wife  slept  in  the  room  over  the  kitchen.  The  other  bare 
room,  used  as  a  storeroom,  was  full  of  black  sausages  and 
stinking  cheese,  strings  of  garlic  hung  on  the  walls,  and 
bunches  of  onions  and  winter  marrows  strung  on  osier 
withes.  Below,  in  front  of  the  inn,  were  two  or  three 
arbours,  that  must  have  been  covered  thick  with  leaves  in 
spring  and  summer,  but  now  they  were  bare,  showing  the 
wooden  framework.  Under  the  arbours  were  dusty,  broken 
tables  covered  with  dry,  rustling  leaves ;  and  at  the  side 
of  the  inn  was  a  bowling-green,  surrounded  by  a  low  myrtle 
hedge.  The  host  had  had  a  wooden  stair  made  inside,  lead- 
ing from  the  ground-floor  to  the  upper  rooms ;  and  a  door 
at  the  back  opened  on  to  the  fields.  From  the  first-floor 
windows  could  be  seen  the  suburbs  of  Naples,  Reclusorio 
Road,  the  railway-station,  the  swamps  outside  the  town,  and 
the  Campo  Santo  Hill.  Two  roads  went  up  to  the  inn  ; 
one  came  from  Moiariella,  the  other  from  Ponte  Rossi. 
There  was  the  way  from  the  fields  also,  but  it  did  not  count. 
However,  if  the  neighbourhood  of  the  country  inn  was 
deserted,  some  company  were  certainly  expected,  for  the 
servant  in  the  kitchen  that  fine  quiet  morning  was  giving  hard 
blows  to  some  pork  chops  on  a  big  table.  On  the  stove  a 
kettle  was  boiling  for  a  macaroni.  Before  the  inn  door  the 
host,  a  sagacious-looking  peasant,  was  washing  fennel  and 


BARBASSONE'S  INN— THE  DUEL  295 

salad  in  a  bowl  on  the  ground,  throwing  away  the  bad 
leaves  to  the  thin  fowls  that  were  clucking  about.  The 
hostess  of  the  Barbassone  was  away ;  her  husband  often 
sent  her  out  when  it  suited  him,  to  buy  fresh  fish,  tripe,  or 
whatever  could  not  be  got  at  Capodimonte  market.  He 
stayed  at  home  with  the  old  servant,  who  was  busy  in  the 
kitchen  helping  him  ;  and  there  was  a  son  of  his,  about 
twelve  years  old,  who  waited  on  the  customers.  This  boy 
was  now  employed  in  the  kitchen  grating  down  some  white 
nipping  Cotrone  cheese,  that  looks  like  chalk  and  burns  the 
throat,  but  Naples  throats  do  not  object  to  it. 

It  was  a  soft,  quiet  time  near  noon.  The  host  often 
looked  to  see  if  anyone  was  coming  from  the  low  road  of 
Ponte  Rossi,  or  if  anyone  was  coming  down  Moiariella  road, 
but  Barbassone's  keen  face  was  as  serene  as  the  December 
morning.  He  bent  down  again  to  soak  the  lettuce-leaves  in 
the  already  earthy  water  of  the  basin,  when,  without  his 
having  seen  her,  a  black  figure  of  a  woman  rose  before  him. 
She  was  a  girl  a  little  over  twenty,  but  so  worn  with  fatigue, 
want  and  sorrow  she  looked  years  older,  and  her  great  black 
eyes  burned  in  her  lean  face.  She  was  Carmela,  the  cigar-girl, 
Annarella  and  Filomena's  unhappy  sister,  Raffaele  or  Far- 
fariello's  despised  love.  She  had  come  on  foot,  so  naturally 
made  no  noise.  A  thinly-veiled  excitement  was  mingled  in 
her  face  with  the  weariness  after  her  long  walk.  She  was 
dressed  like  a  vagrant  in  a  cotton  frock  quite  washed  out, 
with  a  rag  of  a  red  shawl  round  her  neck  and  a  rumpled 
cotton  apron  at  her  waist. 

'  Good  -  day,  gossip,'  she  said,  greeting  the  host  with 
Naples  common  folk's  favourite  title. 

'  Good-morning,  lass,'  he  answered,  looking  at  her  sus- 
piciously. 

'  Can  I  have  a  glass  of  wine  ?'  she  asked,  keeping  down  a 
tremble  in  her  voice. 

'  Are  you  alone  ?' 

'  What  about  it  ?     Am  I  not  able  to  pay  for  a  glass  ?' 

'  You  may  drink  the  whole  cellar,'  the  host  said  in  a  tone 
of  affected  carelessness,  and  he  stood  aside  to  let  her  into 
the  room,  following  her  to  a  table. 

She  sat  down  on  a  rough  chair,  after  glancing  round 
quickly.  There  were  no  customers. 

'  Is  it  Gragnano  wine  you  want  ?' 

'  Yes,  sir.' 


296  THE  LAND  OF  COCKA  YNE 

1  Half  a  pint  of  Gragnano  wine !'  shouted  the  host  towards 
the  kitchen,  cleaning  the  table  with  his  apron. 

'Do  you  wish  anything  to  eat?'  he  then  added,  still  staring 
at  the  girl. 

'  I  am  not  hungry ;  I  am  thirsty,'  said  Carmela,  casting 
down  her  eyes.  '  Give  me  a  pennyworth  of  dry  chestnuts.' 

The  host  slowly  went  to  get  those  white,  shrivelled,  hard 
chestnuts  that  provoke  thirst.  In  the  meanwhile  the  boy 
brought  a  caraffe  of  greenish  glass  full  of  dark  wine, 
stoppered  by  the  usual  vine-leaf.  Carmela  began  to  munch 
the  chestnuts  slowly,  drinking  a  mouthful  of  wine  at  times. 

'  Will  you  do  me  the  pleasure  ?'  she  said  to  the  host,  who 
was  hovering  about  rather  uneasily. 

'  Thank  you,  I  will,'  he  said. 

He  never  refused,  and,  as  there  was  only  one  glass,  he 
took  a  long  pull  at  the  bottle,  making  the  wine  gurgle,  then 
drying  his  lips. 

'  How  quiet  you  are  out  here  !'  said  the  girl,  trying  to 
start  a  conversation.  '  Have  you  customers  always  ?' 

'  Not  always.     It  is  according  to  the  weather.' 

'  People  from  Naples  come,  do  they  not  ?' 

'  Yes,  I  have  them  sometimes.' 

'  Here  are  two  francs.  Buy  a  cap  for  your  boy,'  she 
said,  seeing  the  host  was  suspicious. 

He  took  the  money  unhesitatingly  and  pocketed  it,  then 
stood  to  be  questioned. 

*  A  set  of  young  fellows  are  to  come  here  at  mid-day,  are 
they  not  ?' 

'  Yes,  I  expect  some.' 

'One  Farfariello  is  to  be  with  them,  I  believe?' 

'  Yes,  I  heard  that.' 

She  gave  a  deep  sigh. 

'  Is  he  your  brother  ?'  the  innkeeper  asked. 

'  He  is  my  lover.' 

'  There  are  no  women  with  them,'  the  host  remarked 
carelessly. 

'  I  know  that,'  she  said,  shaking  her  head.  '  But  not  only 
they  are  coming.  Don't  you  expect  others  ?' 

'  Another  set  of  men  may  be  coming.' 

'  What  to  do  ?'  she  cried  out,  feeling  her  fears  justified. 

'  To  get  dinner,  of  course.' 

'  Is  there  nothing  else  ?' 

'  Nothing.     At  Barbassone's  it  is  the  only  thing  to  do.' 


BARHASSONE'S  INN— THE  DUEL  297 

'  On  your  honour,  is  that  all  ?' 

'  I  give  you  my  word.  While  they  are  in  my  house 
nothing  can  happen.' 

'  Yes,  but  what  about  afterwards  ?' 

'  I  have  nothing  to  do  with  that.  When  they  have  gone 
three  yards  away,  I  have  no  more  to  do  with  them,  do 
you  see.' 

She  said  no  more,  and  got  quite  thoughtful.  A  wine- 
stain  was  on  the  table,  and  she  lengthened  it  with  her  finger, 
making  a  pattern  with  the  wine. 

'  Gossip,  will  you  do  me  a  kindness  ?' 

'  Don't  speak  like  that.' 

'  A  real  charity,  gossip,  that  God  will  give  you  back  on 
that  handsome  son  of  yours.  Let  me  be  present  at  this 
dinner  in  some  room  aloft — any  hole  where  I  can  see  with- 
out being  seen.' 

'  My  dear,  Barbassone  never  meddles  with  doubtful  affairs.' 

'  If  you  love  your  son,  do  not  say  no  to  me.  It  is  not  a 
plot,  I  swear  it  by  the  Virgin !  It  is  an  idea,  a  fancy  of 
mine.  I  want  to  see  what  my  lover  is  doing.' 

'  Yes,  to  make  a  scene — a  quarrel.' 

'  I  will  not  move,  sir ;  I  swear  it  by  my  eyes  !  I  just 
want  to  look  on  at  this  dinner — nothing  more.' 

'  Do  you  promise  not  to  come  out  of  the  room  ?' 

'  I  swear  I  will  not.' 

'  Nor  try  to  speak  to  anyone  ?' 

'  No,  no,  I  won't.' 

'  If  you  are  found  out,  do  not  say  that  I  put  you  there.' 

'  Of  course  not.' 

'  Come  with  me,'  he  said  sharply. 

She  started  after  the  host,  who  left  the  hall  and  went  up 
the  outside  stair  to  the  second-floor.  Carmela  gave  a  glance 
from  the  parapet  up  the  two  roads  that  lead  from  Naples  to 
Barbassone's  inn,  but  they  were  quiet  and  deserted.  Not 
the  slightest  noise  of  a  carriage  or  footsteps  came  up  in 
that  noontide  silence.  The  innkeeper  took  Carmela  across 
the  room  where  he  and  his  wife  slept,  and  opened  the  door 
of  the  smaller  one  alongside  where  the  inn  provisions  were 
kept.  A  whiff  of  rancid  lard  and  ripe  cheese  caught  Car- 
mela by  the  throat  and  made  her  cough. 

'  You  will  be  all  right  here,  my  dear,'  Barbassone  said  to 
her,  leading  her  to  a  window  that  looked  to  the  front  of  the 
inn.  '  If  these  honest  fellows  come,  they  will  dine  down 


298  THE  LAND  OF  COCKA  YNE 

there  in  the  arbour.  You  will  see  their  every  movement. 
Only  you  must  promise  you  will  stay  behind  the  window- 
glass.' 

'Yes,  sir,  I  will,'  Carmela  promised. 

'You  are  not  to  go  down,  whatever  happens.  Do  you 
understand  ?  I  don't  want  to  get  into  a  scrape  with  my 
customers.' 

'  Yes,  sir ;  I  will  not  go  down,  never  fear,'  she  said  in  a 
low  tone,  half  shutting  her  eyes,  as  if  she  saw  a  frightful 
sight  before  her. 

'  If  not,  I  will  shut  you  in.' 

'  There  is  no  need  of  that.  As  I  love  the  blessed  Virgin, 
I  won't  move.' 

'  Good-bye  in  the  meanwhile,'  said  he,  going  away. 

'  God  will  reward  you,'  the  girl  called  out  after  him. 

The  long  waiting  began,  and  to  the  love-lorn  maiden 
these  minutes  had  the  weight  of  lead.  Still,  she  stood 
motionless  behind  the  dull,  dirty  window,  and  her  warm 
breath  dulled  the  panes  more.  There  were  a  couple  of 
bottomless  chairs  and  a  wooden  stool  in  the  room,  but  she 
did  not  think  of  sitting  down.  She  was  too  anxious  to 
mount  guard  at  the  window,  looking  at  the  two  sunny  roads 
that  mild  winter's  day,  examining  the  peaceful  landscape, 
where  city  noises  were  silent.  Only  twice  she  went  back- 
wards and  forwards  in  that  room  full  of  black  sausages  and 
brown  cheese,  choked  by  their  bad  smell,  and  she  saw  there 
was  another  window  that  looked  to  the  back  of  the  inn, 
over  the  fields  going  up  to  Capodimonte.  It  was  perfectly 
silent  on  that  side  too. 

As  time  passed,  a  sharp  anguish  caught  her  heart. 
Perhaps  the  man  who  had  told  her  of  Farfariello's  and  his 
friend's  trip  to  Barbassone's  inn  had  cheated  her,  or  she 
might  have  misunderstood  what  he  meant.  Farfariello,  his 
friends,  and  the  others,  perhaps  at  that  time  were  already  in 
some  other  place,  and  all  might  be  happening  far  off,  with- 
out her  being  able  to  stop  it.  Perhaps  it  had  happened 
already.  She  often  turned  her  eyes  to  heaven,  praying  that 
it  should  not  be  so.  At  one  time,  not  managing  to  keep 
down  her  uneasiness,  she  pulled  her  rosary  from  her  pocket 
and  began  to  say  Ave  Marias  and  Pater  Nosters  mechani- 
cally, thinking  of  something  else.  Seeing  a  dreadful  vision, 
that  made  her  despairing  heart  go  out  to  the  Virgin,  for  her 
to  save  Raffaele  from  misfortune  'and  in  the  hour  of  our  death,' 


BARBASSONES  INN— THE  DUEL  299 

she  caught  herself  saying  aloud  once.  It  was  just  then  a 
noise  of  wheels  and  a  cracking  of  whips  came  from  Capo- 
dimonte  Road,  and  Raffaele  and  three  other  youths,  almost 
the  same  age,  appeared  in  a  cab. 

'Oh,  Our  Lady  of  Sorrows!'  sobbed  out  Carmela  from 
behind  the  window. 

Raffaele  paid  for  the  cab,  and,  contrary  to  the  usual  habit 
in  these  country  trips,  that  the  driver  always  shares  the 
pleasures  of  the  day,  this  time  the  horse  turned  round  and 
went  back  the  way  it  came.  The  young  fellows,  with 
trousers  tight  at  the  knee  and  caps  hanging  by  one  hair, 
were  now  making  a  great  uproar  in  the  lower  room,  perhaps 
because  dinner  was  not  ready.  The  boy  quickly  spread  the 
cloth  on  one  of  the  tables  which  ought  to  have  been  shaded 
by  the  leaves  of  the  arbour,  but  it  was  bare.  In  the  mean- 
while, quite  calmly,  these  youths  set  to  playing  bowls,  wait- 
ing till  the  macaroni  was  ready.  Raffaele  especially  went 
about  quietly,  with  that  low-class  ease  that  charmed  Car- 
mela's  heart. 

'  May  you  be  blessed  !'  she  whispered,  rather  reassured  by 
that  calmness. 

Now,  seated  at  four  sides  of  the  table,  pulling  macaroni 
into  their  plates  from  a  big  dish  in  the  middle,  Raffaele  and 
his  friends  ate  straight  on  with  youthful  appetites,  improved 
by  the  wintry  country  air.  They  drank  a  lot,  and  often 
lifted  their  glasses  of  bluish  dark  wine,  and,  looking  fixedly 
at  each  other,  said  something  and  drank  it  off  at  a  gulp, 
without  winking.  Carmela,  though  she  heard  no  voices, 
understood  that  they  were  drinking  healths,  or  to  the 
success  of  something. 

Up  till  then,  everything  had  gone  on  like  a  commonplace 
joyous  winter  trip,  on  a  fine  sunny  day  in  a  quiet  country 
place  :  the  inn,  the  host  in  the  doorway,  the  boy  serving  the 
table,  and  the  four  fellow-guests,  looked  perfectly  easy,  in 
sympathy  with  the  quietness  around.  But  again  there  was 
a  noise  of  wheels  from  Ponte  Rossi  Road,  and  an  ostentatious 
whip-cracking.  Raffaele  and  his  friends  looked  up,  as  if  out 
of  mere  curiosity,  while  Carmela,  cut  to  the  heart  by  that 
sound,  felt  her  legs  giving  way,  and  she  prayed  the  Lord 
silently  to  give  her  the  strength  not  to  die  just  then. 

It  was  a  party  like  the  first  one — of  four  young  fellows 
with  light  trousers,  tight  at  the  knees,  and  neat  black 
jackets,  wearing  their  caps  over  one  ear.  Carmela  recog- 


300  THE  LAND  OF  COCKAYNE 

nised  the  one  that  led  the  party — Ferdinando,  called  the 
1'  Ammartenato  Teaser.  He  said  something  to  the  driver  on 
paying  him ;  the  man  listened,  bending  down,  then  went  off 
slowly  the  road  he  had  come,  without  turning  his  head. 
The  two  parties  looked  straight  at  each  other  solemnly,  and 
bowed  very  punctiliously.  Raffaele  and  his  friends  went 
on  eating  quietly  ;  the  other  four  took  off  their  hats  and  hung 
them  on  the  bare  boughs.  Macaroni  was  much  quicker 
served  for  them,  perhaps  because  the  host  had  got  ready 
enough  for  the  two  parties,  so  that  at  one  time,  as  Raffaele's 
friends  were  eating  slower  and  Ferdinando's  were  hurrying 
their  mouthfuls,  they  got  to  the  same  stage,  then  went  on 
together  to  the  next  course,  swallowing,  in  two  gulps,  pork 
chops  and  lettuce  salad,  and  drinking  glasses  of  wine  one 
after  another  as  if  they  were  water.  While  they  were 
drinking,  the  two  tables  glanced  at  each  other  now  and 
then  quite  indifferently.  In  spite  of  the  quantity  of  wine 
swallowed  they  seemed  to  keep  very  cool ;  some  of  them 
lay  back  in  their  chairs  occasionally  in  a  calm  way.  Still, 
all  that  calm  and  free-and-easiness  was  the  same  at  each 
table,  curiously  alike,  as  if  the  two  sets  had  made  a  tacit 
agreement ;  but  it  fell  short  of  the  gaiety  natural  to  Neapoli- 
tans on  an  outing,  when  laughter,  shouts,  and  songs  rise  to 
heaven.  Sometimes  the  youths  round  Raffaele,  nicknamed 
Farfariello,  bent  towards  him,  and  he  smiled  proudly ;  it 
was  the  only  sign  of  cheerfulness  in  the  company.  Ferdi- 
nando— Ammartenato  as  his  nickname  was — did  not  smile 
even ;  his  set  tossed  glasses  of  wine  down  their  throats 
always,  not  moving  a  muscle.  Carmela  looked  on  from 
above ;  her  lover's  smiles,  the  wine  drunk  off  by  the  two 
sets,  and  their  peaceful  free-and-easiness,  did  not  reassvire 
her.  Amongst  other  things,  she  saw  the  movement  of  the 
lips,  but  did  not  hear  the  words.  It  seemed  to  her  that  a 
deep  silence  was  between  these  people,  who  understood 
each  other  by  signs ;  it  was  a  doleful  silence,  in  the  midst 
of  country  peace.  A  slow,  ever-increasing  anguish  oppressed 
her  breathing,  as  if  her  heart  had  contracted  and  only  beat 
at  intervals ;  her  whole  will  was  in  abeyance.  She  stood, 
leaning  with  her  forehead  against  the  dusty  window,  rigid, 
her  sad  eyes  fixed  on  Raffaele's  face,  as  if  she  wanted  to 
read  what  was  passing  through  his  mind.  Now  the  inn- 
keeper and  his  boy  brought  the  fruit — that  is  to  say,  dried 
chestnuts  and  a  bundle  of  celery  with  white  stalks  and  long, 


BARBASSON&S  INN— THE  DUEL  301 

thin  green  leaves — and  with  it  more  wine.  Then,  all  of  a 
sudden,  after  his  father  had  whispered  something  in  his  ear, 
the  little  boy  took  off  his  apron,  put  on  his  cap,  and  started 
off  running  up  the  Ponte  Rossi  Road.  As  it  was  getting 
near  the  end  of  the  meal,  Carmela  felt  her  brain  giving  way ; 
she  had  one  single  desire  growing  in  her  mind  to  go  down, 
take  Raffaele  by  the  arm,  and  carry  him  off  with  her,  afar, 
where  neither  cammorvisti  nor  guappi  could  reach.  She  dared 
not.  For  a  month  before  that  Raffaele  had  been  cold  and 
hard  to  her,  avoiding  her  persistently,  so  that  she  got  to 
places  he  had  been  at  always  ten  minutes  after  he  had  left. 
He  had  let  her  know,  too,  that  it  was  no  use ;  in  any  case, 
he  would  have  nothing  to  do  with  her. 

'  He  might  at  least  tell  me  why,  and  I  would  go  away 
satisfied,'  she  cried  out,  weeping,  to  those  who  had  repeated 
Raffaele's  words. 

But  she  had  not  seen  him  for  a  month ;  in  fact,  if  she 
knew  that  two  sets  of  Hooligans  were  going  that  day  to  a 
mysterious  appointment  at  the  Barbassone  inn  at  Ponte 
Rossi,  it  was  from  an  indiscretion  of  a  chum  of  Raffaele's. 
He  had  said  it,  looking  her  straight  in  the  eyes,  with  a  secret 
meaning  she  could  not  help  guessing,  so  that  she  left  him  at 
once,  and  on  foot,  from  her  low-lying  quarter,  she  had 
dragged  herself  up  there,  panting,  sorrowful,  biting  her  lips, 
not  to  cry  out  nor  weep. 

She  dared  not  go  down  ;  she  felt  Raffaele  would  abuse  her 
and  chase  her  away  rudely,  as  he  had  always  done  lately. 
She  shook  at  his  angry  voice  and  contemptuous  words. 
Now  the  dinner  was  coming  to  an  end  very  quietly  ;  the  two 
sets  were  smoking  cigars,  gazing  into  vacancy  with  the 
solemn  satisfaction  of  people  who  have  dined  well  and  are 
getting  ready  to  digest.  For  a  time  the  peace  that  rose 
from  the  surroundings  was  such,  and  the  youths  were  all  so 
quiet,  that  for  a  moment  Carmela  felt  her  anguish  soothed, 
and  she  hoped  it  was  a  tragic  dream.  Only  for  a  moment, 
to  fall  deeper  again  into  a  sorrowful  abyss,  where  the 
moments  passed  with  dramatic  slowness. 

Ferdinando's  party  rose.  The  four  young  fellows,  with 
the  usual  cheap  swell  gestures,  pulled  up  their  trousers, 
tightening  the  straps,  dragged  down  their  jackets,  and  set 
their  caps  haughtily  across  their  heads.  They  went  away, 
passing  beside  Raffaele's  table  solemnly;  then  they  all 
touched  their  hats,  and  the  others  answered,  saying  the  same 


302  THE  LAND  OF  COCKA  YNE 

word.  Carmela  could  not  hear  what ;  it  was  '  Greeting.' 
They  went  away  ;  she  gave  a  sigh  of  relief.  But  instead  of 
returning  by  Ponte  Rossi,  whence  they  came,  and  where 
perhaps  the  carriage  was  waiting  for  them,  Carmela  saw 
them  go  round  the  house,  and  one  by  one.  She  had  run  to 
the  window  that  looked  on  to  the  innkeeper's  garden  and 
the  fields,  and  saw  them  disappear  behind  a  green  screen  of 
trees.  Panting,  she  ran  again  to  the  other  window,  that 
looked  on  to  the  inn-yard,  where  Raffaele's  party  were 
getting  ready  to  go  off  also.  All  was  safe  if  they  took  the 
Capodimonte  Road,  whence  they  had  come.  It  would 
only  mean  that  there  had  been  two  dinners,  with  no  after- 
thought nor  consequences.  The  preparations  had  been 
somewhat  slow,  but  at  a  signal  from  Raffaele  all  hurried, 
while  he,  with  a  spent  cigar  in  a  corner  of  his  mouth,  paid 
the  reckoning  quietly.  He  got  up,  stretching  his  arm  for 
his  cap,  which  was  hanging  from  a  bough  ;  in  doing  it  his 
waistcoat  pulled  up,  and  Carmela  saw  something  shining  at 
his  trousers  belt.  It  was  a  revolver.  Yet  for  a  last  moment 
she  still  hoped.  Perhaps  they  were  going  away  peacefully 
by  the  quiet  country  roads  to  the  noisy  town ;  and,  at  any 
rate,  Raffaele  always  carried  a  revolver,  a  small-sized  one. 
But  in  a  moment  the  horrid  fact  she  dreaded  looked  to  her 
like  a  certainty.  Very  quietly  Raffaele  and  the  other  three 
youths  turned,  not  by  Capodimonte  Road,  but  behind  the 
inn,  through  the  garden,  following  the  same  road  as  the 
other  set,  and  making  up  to  them — that  is  to  say,  walking 
quietly  with  their  springy  step  one  after  the  other.  She 
could  bear  it  no  longer  ;  she  felt  something  give  way  within. 
She  ran  to  the  storeroom  door  ;  the  man  had  locked  her  in, 
evidently,  for  it  would  not  open.  She,  wild,  blind  with  grief 
and  rage,  began  to  shake  the  door,  which  was  old  and  worm- 
eaten,  so  that  it  offered  little  resistance.  The  bolt  the  host 
had  drawn  broke  with  the  rattling,  and  she  very  nearly  fell 
on  the  landing  from  the  shock.  She  went  down  the  outside 
stair  at  a  bound,  but  on  the  last  steps  she  found  the  host, 
his  shrivelled  peasant's  face  very  pale,  for  he  had  heard  all 
the  noise.  He  stood  in  her  way. 

'  Where  are  you  going  ?' 

'  Let  me  pass — let  go  !' 

'  Where  are  you  going  ?     Are  you  mad  ?' 

'  Let  me  go,  I  say !' 

He  caught  hold  of  her  wrists  and  looked  her  in  the  eyes. 


BARBASSON&S  INN—TPIE  DUEL  303 

'  Are  you  the  woman  they  are  going  to  kill  each  other 
for?' 

'  Holy  Virgin,  help  me  !     Let  me  go  !' 

'  Do  you  want  to  get  killed  ?' 

'  Yes,  yes  !     Let  go  of  my  wrists  !' 

'  Do  you  want  them  to  kill  you  ?' 

'  It  doesn't  matter  if  they  do,'  she  cried,  slipping  from 
his  grasp  with  a  powerful  wrench. 

Running,  panting,  sobbing,  her  hair  loose,  clapping  on 
the  nape  of  her  neck,  her  dress  beating  against  her  legs  and 
throwing  her  down,  then  getting  up  again,  crying,  filling 
that  serene  country  silence  with  her  despair,  she  ran  after 
the  two  sets  of  men  by  the  same  road,  turning  behind  the 
same  hill  with  green  trees.  She  found  herself  in  a  narrow 
country  road,  and  instinctively  followed  it,  feeling  it  was  the 
right  one.  She  went  on  and  on  very  swiftly,  bursting  with 
sobs,  her  ears  alert,  questioning  the  silence.  But  on  the 
right  a  harsh,  sharp  sound  made  her  jump ;  just  after  it 
came  another  shot,  then  another.  She  rushed  into  the  field 
where  the  two  files  of  low-class  duellists  were  going  on  firing 
at  each  other  at  a  short  range.  Throwing  herself  on  Raffaele, 
she  shrieked  wildly. 

'  Go  away  !'  he  said,  trying  to  free  himself. 

'  No,  I  will  not !'  she  shrieked. 

'  Go  away !' 

'  I  will  not.' 

'  It  is  not  for  you ;  go  away !' 

'  That  doesn't  matter.' 

All  this  took  place  in  a  minute ;  the  shots  went  on  echoing 
dolefully  in  the  country  air.  In  an  interval  she  slipped 
down  on  the  ground,  her  arms  spread  out,  with  a  bullet  in 
her  temple.  Carmela's  fall  was  the  signal  for  flight,  espe- 
cially as,  the  virginal  stillness  of  the  country  air  having  been 
broken  by  the  many  revolver-shots,  people  from  Capodi- 
monte  village  were  heard  arriving  by  Ponti  Rossi  Road. 
Hurriedly  the  two  sets  went  off  across  the  fields  by  a  marked 
path,  and  quickly  disappeared.  On  the  duelling-ground 
only  Carmela  was  left  lying  on  the  grass,  blood  flowing  from 
her  temple.  Beside  her,  Raffaele,  looking  pale,  tried  to 
stanch  the  wound  with  a  wet  handkerchief.  But  the  blood 
went  on  spouting  like  a  fountain,  making  a  red  pool  round 
the  girl's  head.  She  opened  her  eyes  feebly. 

'  Tell  me  who  it  was  for.' 


302  THE  LAND  OF  COCKA  YNE 

word.  Carmela  could  not  hear  what ;  it  was  '  Greeting.' 
They  went  away  ;  she  gave  a  sigh  of  relief.  But  instead  of 
returning  by  Ponte  Rossi,  whence  they  came,  and  where 
perhaps  the  carriage  was  waiting  for  them,  Carmela  saw 
them  go  round  the  house,  and  one  by  one.  She  had  run  to 
the  window  that  looked  on  to  the  innkeeper's  garden  and 
the  fields,  and  saw  them  disappear  behind  a  green  screen  of 
trees.  Panting,  she  ran  again  to  the  other  window,  that 
looked  on  to  the  inn-yard,  where  Raffaele's  party  were 
getting  ready  to  go  off  also.  All  was  safe  if  they  took  the 
Capodimonte  Road,  whence  they  had  come.  It  would 
only  mean  that  there  had  been  two  dinners,  with  no  after- 
thought nor  consequences.  The  preparations  had  been 
somewhat  slow,  but  at  a  signal  from  Raffaele  all  hurried, 
while  he,  with  a  spent  cigar  in  a  corner  of  his  mouth,  paid 
the  reckoning  quietly.  He  got  up,  stretching  his  arm  for 
his  cap,  which  was  hanging  from  a  bough  ;  in  doing  it  his 
waistcoat  pulled  up,  and  Carmela  saw  something  shining  at 
his  trousers  belt.  It  was  a  revolver.  Yet  for  a  last  moment 
she  still  hoped.  Perhaps  they  were  going  away  peacefully 
by  the  quiet  country  roads  to  the  noisy  town ;  and,  at  any 
rate,  Raffaele  always  carried  a  revolver,  a  small-sized  one. 
But  in  a  moment  the  horrid  fact  she  dreaded  looked  to  her 
like  a  certainty.  Very  quietly  Raffaele  and  the  other  three 
youths  turned,  not  by  Capodimonte  Road,  but  behind  the 
inn,  through  the  garden,  following  the  same  road  as  the 
other  set,  and  making  up  to  them — that  is  to  say,  walking 
quietly  with  their  springy  step  one  after  the  other.  She 
could  bear  it  no  longer  ;  she  felt  something  give  way  within. 
She  ran  to  the  storeroom  door  ;  the  man  had  locked  her  in, 
evidently,  for  it  would  not  open.  She,  wild,  blind  with  grief 
and  rage,  began  to  shake  the  door,  which  was  old  and  worm- 
eaten,  so  that  it  offered  little  resistance.  The  bolt  the  host 
had  drawn  broke  with  the  rattling,  and  she  very  nearly  fell 
on  the  landing  from  the  shock.  She  went  down  the  outside 
stair  at  a  bound,  but  on  the  last  steps  she  found  the  host, 
his  shrivelled  peasant's  face  very  pale,  for  he  had  heard  all 
the  noise.  He  stood  in  her  way. 

'  Where  are  you  going  ?' 

'  Let  me  pass — let  go  !' 

'  Where  are  you  going  ?     Are  you  mad  ?' 

'  Let  me  go,  I  say !' 

He  caught  hold  of  her  wrists  and  looked  her  in  the  eyes. 


BARBASSON&S  INN— THE  DUEL  303 

'  Are  you  the  woman  they  are  going  to  kill  each  other 
for?' 

'  Holy  Virgin,  help  me !     Let  me  go  !' 

'  Do  you  want  to  get  killed  ?' 

'  Yes,  yes  !     Let  go  of  my  wrists  !' 

'  Do  you  want  them  to  kill  you  ?' 

'  It  doesn't  matter  if  they  do,'  she  cried,  slipping  from 
his  grasp  with  a  powerful  wrench. 

Running,  panting,  sobbing,  her  hair  loose,  clapping  on 
the  nape  of  her  neck,  her  dress  beating  against  her  legs  and 
throwing  her  down,  then  getting  up  again,  crying,  filling 
that  serene  country  silence  with  her  despair,  she  ran  after 
the  two  sets  of  men  by  the  same  road,  turning  behind  the 
same  hill  with  green  trees.  She  found  herself  in  a  narrow 
country  road,  and  instinctively  followed  it,  feeling  it  was  the 
right  one.  She  went  on  and  on  very  swiftly,  bursting  with 
sobs,  her  ears  alert,  questioning  the  silence.  But  on  the 
right  a  harsh,  sharp  sound  made  her  jump ;  just  after  it 
came  another  shot,  then  another.  She  rushed  into  the  field 
where  the  two  files  of  low-class  duellists  were  going  on  firing 
at  each  other  at  a  short  range.  Throwing  herself  on  Raffaele, 
she  shrieked  wildly. 

'  Go  away  !'  he  said,  trying  to  free  himself. 

'  No,  I  will  not !'  she  shrieked. 

'  Go  away !' 

'  I  will  not.' 

'  It  is  not  for  you ;  go  away !' 

'  That  doesn't  matter.' 

All  this  took  place  in  a  minute ;  the  shots  went  on  echoing 
dolefully  in  the  country  air.  In  an  interval  she  slipped 
down  on  the  ground,  her  arms  spread  out,  with  a  bullet  in 
her  temple.  Carmela's  fall  was  the  signal  for  flight,  espe- 
cially as,  the  virginal  stillness  of  the  country  air  having  been 
broken  by  the  many  revolver-shots,  people  from  Capodi- 
monte  village  were  heard  arriving  by  Ponti  Rossi  Road. 
Hurriedly  the  two  sets  went  off  across  the  fields  by  a  marked 
path,  and  quickly  disappeared.  On  the  duelling-ground 
only  Carmela  was  left  lying  on  the  grass,  blood  flowing  from 
her  temple.  Beside  her,  Raffaele,  looking  pale,  tried  to 
stanch  the  wound  with  a  wet  handkerchief.  But  the  blood 
went  on  spouting  like  a  fountain,  making  a  red  pool  round 
the  girl's  head.  She  opened  her  eyes  feebly. 

'  Tell  me  who  it  was  for.' 


306  THE  LAND  OF  COCKA  YNE 

'  My  sweet  sister,  my  sweet  sister !'  Filomena  went  on 
saying,  still  kneeling  before  Carmela. 

'  Don't  cry — why  do  you  cry  ?'  said  the  wounded  girl,  in 
a  curious,  solemn,  deep  voice. 

'  Tell  me  who  did  it !'  Filomena  said  her.  '  It  was  for 
Raffaele,  was  it  not  ?  Was  there  a  fight  ?  I  knew  it — I 
knew  it ;  but  I  did  not  get  here  in  time.  Holy  Virgin,  why 
did  you  not  let  me  get  here  in  time  ?  I  have  to  see  my 
sister  like  this  because  of  not  getting  here  in  time.' 

A  livid  look  had  come  over  the  wounded  girl's  face  on 
hearing  this ;  her  eyes  had  got  wide  open.  With  a  violent 
effort  she  raised  her  head  a  little,  and  said  to  Filomena, 
staring  at  her : 

«  Tell  me  the  truth.' 

'  What  do  you  wish,  sweetheart  ?' 

'  I  want  you  to  tell  me — but  think  of  the  state  I  am  in, 
think  of  that  first.  ...  I  want  you  to  tell  me  all.' 

Then  the  other,  fallen  into  deeper  affliction,  shook  all 
over  and  held  her  tongue. 

'They  have  had  a  duel,'  Carmela  brought  out  with 
difficulty,  keeping  her  eyes  on  her  sister.  '  There  were  eight 
of  them ;  Raffaele  was  there,  and  Ferdinando  the  Ammar- 
tenato — they  were  fighting  for  a  woman.' 

'  Holy  Virgin !'  Filomena  said,  going  on  weeping  with 
her  face  in  her  hands. 

'  Who  was  the  woman  ?'  asked  the  wounded  girl,  putting 
her  hand  on  her  sister's  head,  and  almost  obliging  her  to  raise 
it.  Filomena  only  looked  at  her,  her  eyes  filled  with  tears. 

'  It  was  you — it  was  you,'  the  wounded  girl  said  in  a 
cavernous  voice. 

The  bad  woman  threw  herself  back,  raised  her  arms 
heavenward,  and  cried : 

'  I  am  a  murderer — I  am  the  cause  of  your  death !' 

Carmela's  face  got  clay  colour ;  in  a  whisper,  stammering, 
as  if  she  could  not  use  her  tongue,  she  too  said : 

'  Murderer !  murderer !' 

'  You  are  right — you  are  right,  Carmela :  I  am  a  wretch  !' 
Filomena  cried,  stretching  out  her  arms.  A  moment  after, 
the  blood  soaked  the  bandage  round  the  wounded  girl's 
head,  and  blood  began  to  drop  from  her  nose.  The  magis- 
trate, who  had  run  up,  frowned,  and  signed  to  the  cabman, 
who  had  come  forward  to  take  the  girl  to  Pellegrini  Hospital, 
to  stop. 


BARBASSONES  INN— THE  DUEL  307 

1  Forgive  me,  dear,'  Filomena  wept  out,  cast  down  at  the 
foot  of  the  chair.  But  Carmela  no  longer  heard  her.  Blood 
flowed  from  her  mouth  and  trickled  down  from  her  nose, 
falling  on  her  breast ;  the  earthy  pallor  of  the  face  spread  to 
the  neck ;  her  half-open  eyes  showed  the  whites  only ;  her 
hands,  lying  on  her  knees,  pulled  at  her  wretched,  dull  dress, 
as  if  searching,  with  that  motion  that  gives  a  frightful 
impression  of  terror  and  sorrow.  All  of  a  sudden  she  opened 
her  mouth — her  breath  was  failing  her. 

'Carmela  darling!'  Filomena  cried  out,  understanding, 
getting  up  on  her  knees,  panting.  But  from  her  mouth, 
black  already,  a  loud,  long  cry  came  out,  as  profound  as 
if  it  came  from  her  tortured  vitals,  sorrowful  as  if  all  the 
complaints  of  a  life-long  agony  were  in  it — a  cry  so  loud 
and  doleful  it  seemed  to  shake  everything  around — men  and 
things — and  make  the  neighbourhood  lose  colour.  Carmela's 
light  hand  was  still  vaguely  searching  for  something,  and 
ended  by  finding  Filomena's  head,  where  it  rested,  grew 
cold  and  stiffened.  The  dead  woman's  face  was  quite  cold, 
but  it  was  tranquil  now.  Silently  bent  forward  under  the 
forgiving  hand,  the  survivor  sat  there,  and  the  country 
around  was  silent  also. 


20 — 2 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

TO    LET 

THE  fourth  of  January,  188-,  very  early  in  the  morning,  the 
porter's  wife  at  Rossi  Palazzo,  formerly  called  Cavalcanti, 
put  a  step-ladder  against  the  architrave  of  the  entrance 
door,  to  the  right,  and  stuck  three  bits  of  paper  on  the  piper- 
nina  stone,  with  '  To  Let '  printed  on  each  piece.  The  three 
notices  said  that  three  large  suites  of  rooms,  so  many  in  each 
suite,  were  available,  and  could  be  seen  at  such  an  hour. 
Coming  down  the  ladder,  the  woman  sighed  dolefully.  For 
years  none  of  the  Rossi  Palazzo  suites  had  been  to  let ;  every- 
one was  very  comfortable  and  stayed  on.  She  had  got  to 
know  them  all  well.  In  the  four  months  houses  are  looked 
for  in  Naples,  from  the  fourth  of  January  to  the  fourth  of 
May,  she  had  peacocked  about  at  her  ease  always.  She 
had  not  to  go  up  and  down  stairs  with  house-hunters,  as  the 
Rosa  Mansion  woman  next  door  or  the  Latilla  woman  had 
to  do ;  she  did  not  risk  changing  tenants  that  liked  her  for 
new  ones  that  might  be  unpleasant.  Instead  of  which,  this 
very  year  three  large  flats  were  empty  at  the  same  time : 
one  on  the  first  floor— the  Fragalas' ;  two  suites  on  the 
second  floor — Dr.  Amati's  and  the  Marquis  di  Formosa's. 
It  was  a  real  catastrophe  for  the  porter's  wife,  who  never 
would  get  any  rest  for  four  months,  and  get  no  pay  for  her 
trouble.  Altogether,  three  large  suites  to  be  empty  was 
really  a  misfortune.  '  Just  like  my  luck,'  said  the  porter's 
wife  to  those  who  condoled  with  her  and  asked  the  reason  of 
these  changes.  She  told  the  reason  the  tenants  were  going 
at  once,  so  that  people  should  not  believe  Rossi  Palazzo  was 
damp,  that  it  threatened  to  fall,  or  that  the  owner  had  got  an 
idea  of  raising  the  rents.  Nothing  of  the  sort.  It  was  mis- 
fortunes. All  are  liable  to  them.  It  was  natural  Don 
Cesare  Fragala  and  that  good  soul  Donna  Luisa  should 
leave  the  house  where  they  had  been  married.  It  was 
splendid,  really — a  gorgeous  apartment,  but  they  could  not 


TO  LET  309 

pay  the  high  rent  any  longer.  The  husband  had  gambled 
everything  away  at  the  lottery ;  he  was  loaded  with  debts 
and  ruined.  Also,  his  confectioner's  shop  in  Santo  Spirito 
Square  had  gone  out  of  his  possession,  for  his  wife,  fearing 
bankruptcy  was  at  hand,  had  decided  to  sell  everything : 
jewels,  plate,  and  furniture  were  all  to  be  sold,  everything 
luxurious  got  rid  of,  and  a  composition  be  made  with  their 
creditors.  They  were  to  go  into  a  small  house,  and  look 
out  for  a  clerk's  place  for  her  husband,  to  keep  the  family 
agoing.  The  porter's  wife  and  her  gossiping  friend  remem- 
bered the  two  gorgeous  parties  for  Cesare's  marriage  with 
Luisella  and  at  little  Agnesina's  birth — all  the  great  style  of 
these  receptions,  the  sweets,  wine,  and  ices.  It  was  an 
overthrow. 

'  Good  gracious !'  muttered  the  inquirer,  man  or  woman. 
'  Did  he  lose  all  that  at  the  lottery  ?' 

'  He  lost  all.  They  are  left  without  a  farthing,  if  they 
pay  their  debts  ;  and  Donna  Luisa  insists  on  paying.  She 
may  die  from  it,  but  she  will  pay.' 

'  What  a  scoundrel  of  a  husband  she  has  got !' 

'  We  are  not  masters  of  ourselves,'  the  porter's  wife  prosed 
solemnly ;  '  we  are  all  flesh.' 

She  was  sorry,  very,  that  the  Fragalas  were  going  off  to 
who  knew  where.  She  would  never  see  them  again.  Most 
of  all,  she  was  sorry  for  little  Agnesina ;  she  was  so  good, 
placid,  and  obedient.  She  already  went  to  the  infants' 
school,  tiny  little  body !  Her  mother  went  with  her  and 
brought  her  back  carefully  every  day.  They  were  a  good 
sort,  and  it  had  to  be  seen  who  would  come  in  their  place. 

The  Cavalcantis'  going  away  was  a  thing  that  had  been 
foreseen  for  some  time.  The  Marquis  had  paid  no  rent  for 
several  months,  and  Signer  Rossi  had  stood  it.  He  had 
allowed  something  to  be  paid  on  account  now  and  then, 
partly  because  the  Marquis  di  Formosa  had  been  the  old 
owner  of  the  house  and  sold  it  to  him,  and  he  did  not  want 
to  turn  him  out  forcibly.  How  patient  he  had  been  !  Now 
he  could  stand  it  no  longer.  In  the  Cavalcanti  household 
they  were  often  short  of  five  francs  for  food.  The  Marquis 
had  carried  off  the  most  necessary  furniture  piece  by  piece, 
selling  it  to  a  dealer  in  Baracchi  Square.  Donna  Bianca 
Maria,  poor  soul !  often  dined  off  a  hot  dish  that  her  aunt, 
Sister  Maria  degli  Angioli,  sent  her  from  the  Sacramentiste 
convent.  The  two  old  servants,  Giovanni  and  Margherita, 


3io  THE  LAND  OF  COCKAYNE 

tried  for  outside  work.  The  woman  darned  stockings  and 
silk-knitted  goods ;  the  man  copied  papers  for  a  magistrate's 
clerk.  They  were  in  such  wretchedness  that  but  for  feeling 
shame  the  doorkeeper  would  often  carry  up  a  dish  of  her 
macaroni  or  hot  vegetable  soup  ;  but  she  dared  not.  They 
were  gentlefolk,  and  bore  their  wretchedness  silently.  Be- 
sides, for  want  of  a  dower,  Donna  Bianca  Maria  Cavalcanti 
had  been  rejected  as  a  sister  of  charity.  By  the  new  laws 
it  was  not  allowable  to  go  into  other  monasteries  or  orders ; 
the  new  Government  would  not  even  let  one  be  a  nun. 

'  Then  are  they  going  away  in  May  ?'  asked  the  inquirer 
rather  pityingly.  '  Where  are  they  going  ?' 

'  Who  can  say  ?  But  I  can  tell  you  that  her  ladyship 
will  not  see  that  day.  She  is  so  ill ;  she  wastes  away  like 
a  taper ;  she  says  nothing,  but  when  she  has  the  strength 
to  show  at  the  window,  she  looks  like  a  shadow.  She  does 
not  go  out  now  ;  indeed,  she  has  no  clothes  to  go  out  with, 
and  if  she  had  them  she  would  not  have  the  strength  to 
go  a  step.  Poor  lady !  to  think  her  father  could  have  got 
her  married  if  he  had  chosen.' 

'  To  whom  ?     Why  would  he  not  allow  it  ?' 

Here  began  the  woman's  third  sorrowful  recital,  the 
departure  of  the  third  tenant,  Dr.  Amati,  that  she  earned 
such  a  lot  of  money  by,  from  his  sudden  summonses  to 
sick  people.  Alas  !  he  was  going  away  ;  indeed,  he  had 
gone,  putting  her  on  the  street,  poor  woman,  for  she  would 
never  earn  another  farthing.  Just  fancy  that  Dr.  Amati, 
who  was  so  rich  now,  and  earned  as  much  as  he  liked, 
just  out  of  charity,  he  was  such  a  good  man,  had  wanted 
to  marry  the  Marchesina,  she  was  so  sweet  and  lovely  ; 
and  she  had  been  in  love  with  the  doctor,  too,  from  her 
soul,  because  he  had  helped  her  in  her  illness — because  she 
had  known  no  other  man — in  short,  because  he  only  could 
get  her  out  of  that  beggary.  Well,  it  was  not  to  be 
believed,  but  the  Marquis  di  Formosa  had  said  '  No,'  and 
had  persisted  in  saying  '  No,'  always  making  his  daughter 
lose  that  bit  of  good  luck  she  would  never  have  again. 

'  What  do  you  say  ?'  her  questioner  cried  out.  '  It  seems 
impossible.' 

'  Indeed,  yes,  it  looks  like  a  lie,  but  the  Marquis  di 
Formosa  said  "No."  He  felt  quite  honoured  and  pleased 
that  Dr.  Amati  had  asked  for  his  daughter's  hand,  but  some 
forbears  of  his  long  ago  had  left  a  written  paper,  in  which 


TO  LET  311 

it  was  said  the  last  woman  child  of  the  family  was  not  to 
marry — she  must  die  a  maid  ;  and  if  this  command  was  not 
carried  out,  a  great  punishment  from  God  would  come  on 
her.  No  one  knew  what  tears  the  Marchesina  had  shed, 
but  her  father  had  been  firm.  So  that  Dr.  Amati — one 
evening  they  had  had  a  great  dispute — to  avoid  further 
occasions  for  anger,  and  to  get  the  idea  out  of  his  head,  had 
taken  a  month's  leave  from  the  hospital,  left  all  his  patients, 
and  gone  off  to  his  native  village  to  see  his  mother.  Then 
he  came  back  to  Naples,  but  he  would  not  even  put  his 
foot  in  Rossi  Palazzo ;  he  had  gone  to  live  in  a  furnished 
house  in  Chiaia  Road.  At  Rossi  Palazzo  his  flat  was  closed 
with  all  his  furniture  and  books  which  the  doctor  no  longer 
read ;  sometimes  the  housekeeper  came  to  dust,  and  went 
away  again.  In  a  short  time  now  the  furniture  and  books 
would  be  carried  away,  too,  and  in  May  the  flat  would  be 
empty.  Poor  Donna  Bianca  Maria,  how  often  she  had  seen 
her  come  to  the  window  of  the  inner  court  and  gaze  on  Dr. 
Amati's  closely-shut  balcony !  She  made  one's  heart  sore, 
that  poor  child  of  the  Virgin,  wasting  away  with  sickness, 
melancholy,  and  wretchedness.  Really  it  looked  as  if  there 
was  no  more  oil  in  the  lamp.  Margherita,  her  maid,  when 
she  spoke  about  her,  cast  down  her  eyes  not  to  show  she 
was  weeping.  But  the  Marquis  was  not  wrong  to  obey 
his  grandsire's  wishes ;  there  is  no  trifling  with  God's 
vengeance.' 

'  Ah !  it  was  written,'  remarked  the  gossip  approvingly, 
quite  thoughtful.  '  It  was  written,  my  dear.  When  it  is 
God's  will,  what  is  to  be  done  ?' 

House-hunters  began  to  flock  in  to  inspect  the  flats  to  let 
in  Rossi  Palazzo,  and  the  doorkeeper's  hard  times  began — 
it  was  never-ending,  from  ten  in  the  morning  to  four  in  the 
afternoon,  up  and  down  the  stairs.  Every  time  a  family 
arrived  in  front  of  the  office  and  made  the  usual  inquiries, 
she  shook  her  head  and  got  up,  sighing,  to  go  with  them  to 
the  first  or  second  floor.  She  went  in  front,  going  up  very 
slowly,  turning  round  to  chat  with  the  usual  familiarity  of 
small  people  in  Naples,  making  her  keys  rattle,  as  they  hung 
from  her  waist ;  asking  if  they  wanted  to  see  the  doctor's 
rooms,  for  he  had  given  her  charge  of  them.  Monotonously 
wandering  through  the  huge  rooms,  rather  severely  furnished, 
where  the  stern  moral  impression  of  a  great  science — a  great 
will — was  still  present,  and  all  the  human  misery  that  had 


3i2  THE  LAND  OF  COCKAYNE 

come  there  to  ask  help,  she  praised  up  the  house  and  Dr. 
Amati,  the  famous  doctor  that  all  Naples  admired,  or,  as 
she  said,  the  whole  world. 

'  Ah,'  said  the  visitors, "much  impressed ;  '  and  why  did 
he  leave  this  house,  then  ?' 

Very  hastily  she  replied  that  the  doctor  was  going  to 
marry  and  needed  a  larger  house,  or  that  his  business  had 
gone  in  another  direction,  or  that  he  was  going  to  a  smaller 
apartment,  having  taken  a  consulting-room  at  the  hospital ; 
in  short,  any  lie  that  came  into  her  head — such  hurried, 
unlikely  lies  that  the  house-hunters,  endowed  with  natural 
suspiciousness,  would  not  take  it  in  at  all.  and  interrupted 
her  with  :  «  All  right ;  we  will  come  back.'  But  they  did 
not  come  back  at  all ;  indeed,  the  solemn,  solitary  look  of 
the  flat,  with  too  many  books,  too  many  surgical  appliances, 
and  even  the  chair-bed  of  black  leather  that  the  sick  lay  on 
to  be  examined,  that  looked  like  the  first  step  towards  the 
tomb,  left  rather  a  sad  impression,  so  they  went  away 
hurriedly,  speaking  low,  still  more  alarmed  by  the  doctor 
being  away,  the  feared  and  respected  god  of  medicine. 
They  fled,  never  to  return,  a  cloud  over  their  spirits,  not  at 
all  anxious  to  come  back  to  be  dispirited  by  these  solemn, 
thought-inspiring  surroundings. 

The  doorkeeper,  standing  in  the  doorway,  saw  them  go 
off  quickly  towards  Toledo  Street,  where  there  was  move- 
ment, light,  and  gaiety,  and  in  spite  of  their  vague  promises, 
hesitatingly  made,  she  knew  they  would  never  come  back. 
'  Nothing  is  arranged,  dear,'  she  often  said,  with  a  wearied 
air,  to  the  neighbouring  doorkeeper  at  the  Rosa  Mansion. 
Nothing  was  settled,  even  for  the  flats  that  the  Fragala 
and  Cavalcanti  families  were  leaving.  It  looked  as  if  the 
house-hunters  noticed  the  bad  luck  that  came  from  these 
two  flats,  where  so  many  tears  had  been  shed,  where  so 
many  were  still  being  shed.  In  the  Fragalas'  house,  brave, 
melancholy  Luisella  had  got  rid  of  a  great  part  of  the  furni- 
ture; the  fine  red  drawing-room  was  now  bare  of  its  old 
brocade  couches,  and  the  child  slept  in  its  parents'  room. 
Their  way  of  living  was  of  a  sudden  meaner,  smaller,  being 
restricted  to  the  bedroom  and  dining-room.  Sometimes  the 
visitors  found  the  family  at  dinner  at  two  o'clock.  Cesare 
Fragala  kept  his  eyes  on  his  plate,  eating  stolidly.  Luisella 
said  nothing,  but  kept  rolling  bread-pellets  in  her  fingers. 
Little  Agnesina,  well-behaved  and  good  as  usual,  looked  at 


TO  LET  313 

her  father  and  mother  alternately,  taking  care  to  make  no 
noise  with  her  spoon  and  fork,  not  to  disturb  them.  When 
the  visitors  came  in,  the  father  of  the  family  got  paler  and 
the  mother  cast  down  her  eyes.  Both  of  them  at  each  visit 
felt  having  to  leave  the  house :  their  wounds  smarted  and 
bled  afresh.  The  little  one  looked  at  them,  and  said  over  in 
a  whisper  : 

'  Mamma,  mamma  !' 

The  visitors,  led  in  by  the  doorkeeper,  felt  they  were  in 
the  way,  and  excused  themselves,  going  on  into  other  rooms 
while  the  woman  spoke  volubly  to  take  off  their  attention. 
When  they  saw  the  drawing-room,  parlour,  and  lobby 
empty,  they  gave  queer  glances  at  each  other,  so  that  the 
doorkeeper  shivered  with  impatience,  cursing  in  her  heart 
all  who  go  away  from  houses  and  those  who  go  looking  for 
them,  also  those  who  go  round  to  show  them — that  is  to 
say,  herself,  who  had  this  hard  fate.  The  visitors  asked  the 
stock  questions  rather  suspiciously  : 

'  Why  are  they  going  away  ?' 

Then  she  made  up  her  mind  and  whispered  : 

'  They  have  failed  in  business.' 

'  Ah,  is  that  it  ?'  exclaimed  the  visitors,  much  interested. 

On  the  stair  she  gave  particulars — told  the  reason  of  the 
failure,  spoke  of  their  former  riches  and  the  want  of  any 
comforts  now ;  told  about  Signora  Luisella's  courage  and 
her  husband's  rage  for  gambling  on  the  lottery,  and  poor 
little  Agnesina's  good  behaviour.  She  seemed  to  under- 
stand having  come  into  the  world  and  grown  up  at  a  bad 
season.  The  house-hunters  listened  full  of  interest,  with 
that  skin-deep  emotion  peculiar  to  Southerners  ;  but  from 
what  they  had  seen,  as  well  as  from  what  they  had  heard 
from  the  doorkeeper,  they  got  a  singular  impression  of  evil 
fate — a  doom  weighing  down  an  innocent,  good  family ;  a  hard 
destiny,  destroying  all  the  sources  of  happiness  and  energy. 

The  house-hunters  turned  their  backs  on  the  Fragala 
household  and  Rossi  Palazzo  slowly  ;  but  they  still  felt  sad, 
and  spoke  to  each  other  about  there  being  implacable, 
unforeseen,  overpowering  disasters,  sometimes  coming  on 
humanity.  Some  attributed  it  to  perfidious  fate,  some  to 
the  evil  eye  ;  others  were  philosophical  over  the  passions 
of  humanity,  especially  for  gambling,  still  repeating  the 
phrase  that  includes  all  the  indulgence  and  forgiveness  of 
Naples'  folk  :  '  We  are  not  our  own  masters.' 


3i4  THE  LAND  OF  COCKAYNE 

It  was  difficult  to  get  into  the  Marquis  di  Formosa's  flat. 
Often  Margherita  objected  to  anyone  seeing  the  house,  in 
spite  of  its  being  the  right  hours  for  visits.  The  doorkeeper 
talked  her  over,  feeling  rather  annoyed.  She  raised  her 
voice  and  asked,  '  How  ever  would  a  house  be  let,  if  no  one 
could  get  in  to  see  it  ?'  Sometimes  she  managed  to  get  in 
by  slipping  through  the  half-open  door.  All  stopped  speak- 
ing at  once,  for  from  the  freezing  bare  lobby  to  the  bare 
frozen  drawing-room  there  was  such  cold,  such  a  smell  of 
old  dust  displaced,  that  it  gave  one  a  shudder.  Big  dull 
stains  on  the  walls  marked  the  outline  of  large  pieces  of 
furniture  that  had  once  been  there,  which  the  Marquis  had 
sold  to  use  what  they  fetched  for  staking  on  the  lottery. 
One  saw  the  big  hooks  and  nails  that  the  pictures  had  been 
hung  from,  and  a  heap  of  old  yellow  paper  lay  on  the  ground 
in  a  corner  of  one  empty  room.  Where  curtains  had  been 
fastened  to  the  doors  and  balcony  windows,  there  were 
holes  in  the  plaster,  for  they  seemed  to  have  been  violently 
torn  away. 

The  chapel,  too,  had  not  a  saint  left.  Our  Lady  of 
Sorrows  and  the  Ecce  Homo  had  been  sold,  also  the  vases 
and  ornaments — even  the  fine  napkins  with  old  lace,  so  that 
the  despoiled  altar  had  a  doleful,  desecrated  look.  Some- 
times the  visitors,  on  going  through  the  house,  met  a  slight 
girlish  figure  in  black,  her  shoulders  wrapped  in  a  shabby 
shawl,  the  lady's  heavy  black  tresses  seeming  to  make  her 
face  still  more  bloodless.  She  gazed  at  the  visitors  with  her 
sorrowful  eyes  as  if  she  did  not  know  what  was  going  on  ;  a 
shade  of  grief  reanimated  them  for  a  moment  when  she 
remembered  it  meant  they  had  to  leave  that  roof,  their  only 
refuge.  The  woman  said  in  a  whisper,  '  It  is  the  Marche- 
sina !'  nothing  else,  and  that  apparition  was  like  the  outline 
of  an  irreparable  disaster.  Sometimes  the  house-hunters, 
followed  by  Margherita  and  the  doorkeeper,  came  to  a 
closed  door.  The  waiting- woman  rather  hesitated,  but  on 
a  hint  from  the  doorkeeper  she  made  up  her  mind  to  knock. 

'  My  lady,  may  we  come  in  ?' 

'  Yes,  yes  ;  come  in,'  a  feeble  voice  answered. 

Then  all  saw  a  wretched  maidenly  room,  freezing  with 
cold,  where  a  pale  creature  in  black,  wrapped  in  a  worn 
shawl,  was  seated  by  the  bedside,  or  getting  up  quickly  from 
her  kneeling-desk.  Then,  abashed,  they  just  gave  a  quick 
look  round,  muttered  vaguely  some  excuse,  and  went  off, 


TO  LET  315 

the  maiden  following  them  with  her  thoughtful,  sorrowing 
eyes.  On  the  stair  they  dared  to  speak.  They  asked  the 
woman,  as  if  speaking  of  dead  people  or  things : 

'  What  was  their  name  ?' 

'  The  Cavalcantis  ;  he  is  a  Marquis,'  said  the  doorkeeper. 

Then  the  visitors  would  go  off,  taking  with  them  a  deep 
impression  of  people  and  things  that  are  extinct. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

DON    CRESCENZIO'S    TRIALS 

COMING  out  of  the  Finance  Department,  from  the  Secretary's 
room,  having  got  to  the  lobby,  Don  Crescenzio  staggered 
and  had  a  singing  in  his  ears. 

'  Do  you  feel  ill  ?'  asked  the  usher  anxiously,  for  he  knew 
him. 

'  No,  it  is  nothing  ;  it  is  from  this  first  heat  of  spring,'  he 
stammered.  And  he  brought  his  hands  across  his  forehead, 
which  was  covered  with  cold  drops  of  sweat.  Still,  to  try 
to  look  at  ease,  he  pulled  out  a  cigar  and  lit  it. 

'  Is  business  good  ?'  the  usher  asked  the  lottery  banker, 
while  he  was  carefully  putting  out  the  match. 

'  Well,  just  so-so,'  said  the  other,  giving  a  sketchy  sort  of 
smile. 

'  It  would  be  grand  to  get  the  right  figures,'  the  usher 
muttered  ;  '  one  would  like  to  spit  in  this  infamous  Govern- 
ment's face,'  he  added  in  a  whisper. 

'  But  no  one  knows  the  right  figures — no  one  does,'  the 
other  cried  out  as  he  went  away.  But  when  he  was  under 
the  portico  and  got  out  to  the  open  air,  he  felt  dizzy  again  ; 
he  had  a  singing  in  his  ears  and  nearly  fell.  He  had  to 
stand  a  good  minute,  leaning  on  the  stone  posts  of  San 
Giacomo  Palazzo  door,  which  opens  on  to  Toledo  Street, 
seeing  the  usual  crowd  in  that  thoroughfare  swim  before  his 
eyes.  It  was  larger  than  usual,  from  its  being  the  first  fine 
spring  day,  which  brought  out  more  people  than  usual.  He 
only  saw  a  confused  crowd  without  distinct  outlines.  He 
heard  a  great  noise  without  distinguishing  either  words  or 
voices.  Only,  while  he  went  on  smiling  instinctively,  he 
saw  sharply  marked  in  his  mind  the  corner  of  the  writing- 
room  where  the  Finance  Secretary  had  turned  his  cold,  severe 
glance  on  him.  He  heard  the  exact  sound  of  the  Secretary's 
words  ringing  out  as  clear  as  if  they  had  just  struck  the 
drum  of  his  ear.  The  Secretary  had  been  very  stern  with 


DON  CRESCENZiaS  TRIALS  317 

him.  He  could  no  longer  be  lenient  to  the  lottery  banker, 
for  he  had  been  too  lenient  already  ;  he  did  not  want  to 
seem  an  accomplice  of  his  fraud.  '  Fraud,'  he  said  and  re- 
peated, in  spite  of  the  deadly  pallor  that  came  over  Don 
Crescenzio's  face  on  hearing  the  cruel  word. 

One  cannot  play  tricks  with  the  State  ;  it  gives  no  credit. 
Every  week  lately,  when  Don  Crescenzio  came  to  hand  over 
the  profits,  he  was  short  of  money,  and  had  had  to  ask  the 
Minister  of  Finance  at  Rome  to  make  allowances  for  him 
and  give  him  time.  This  had  happened  every  week.  But 
the  State  is  not  a  bank  which  can  grant  delays.  It  makes 
others  wait,  but  it  will  not.  Every  time  he  mentioned  the 
State  the  word  filled  the  Secretary's  mouth  severely  and 
sonorously,  and  he  frowned  a  little.  Don  Crescenzio 
listened,  with  his  head  down,  starting  when  he  heard  named 
that  mysterious  being  who  gets  all  and  gives  nothing  ;  who 
has  no  heart  or  bowels,  and  holds  out  open  hands  to  take 
and  carry  off  everything.  Ah !  the  Secretary  had  been 
decisive  in  his  cruelty.  By  Wednesday  he  must  pay  up  all 
in  full — stakes  and  the  debt  in  arrears ;  if  not,  the  downfall 
was  unavoidable  :  the  State  would  seize  the  caution  money 
and  prosecute  Don  Crescenzio  for  his  indebtedness.  He 
had  just  given  one  sob  at  the  Secretary's  last  words. 

'  You  lose  the  caution  money,  and  you  go  to  prison  if  you 
don't  pay  up,'  the  worthy  official  wound  up  his  remarks 
with. 

Don  Crescenzio  had  set  to  imploring  then.  He  had  a 
wife  and  children  ;  if  he  had  been  so  foolish  as  to  give  the 
gamblers  credit,  was  he  to  be  ruined  for  that  ?  If  they 
would  give  him  time,  he  would  force  the  men  to  pay ;  he 
would  give  back  the  State  the  uttermost  farthing.  He  was 
an  honest  man  ;  in  short,  he  was  cheated,  slain. 

'You  gamble  too,  and  on  credit,'  the  Secretary  said 
haughtily. 

'  I  only  did  it  to  try  and  recoup  myself.' 

'An  honest  lottery  keeper  never  plays  himself.  It  is 
immoral  in  a  citizen  to  play.' 

'  Then  the  State  is  immoral  also.' 

'  The  State  cannot  be  immoral,  remember  that.  Think 
of  how  you  are  to  pay  ;  I  can  do  no  more  for  you.' 

Still,  he  had  begged,  sobbing,  that  they  would  not  cast 
him  into  prison ;  indeed,  they  could  not  require  a  man's 
death,  being  men  and  Christians.  But  he  had  made  that 


3i8  THE  LAND  OF  COCKAYNE 

scene  before  twice,  and  had  managed  to  get  a  month's,  a 
fortnight's  grace.  This  time  the  Secretary  looked  so 
freezingly  at  him  that  Don  Crescenzio  had  understood. 
This  was  the  end,  really.  He  must  either  pay  or  go  to 
prison.  He  took  leave,  always  feeling  that  word  Wednesday, 
Wednesday,  cut  into  his  brain.  It  was  true  he  had  a  young 
wife  and  two  babies  ;  a  small  family,  that  with  Neapolitan 
good-heartedness  and  good-nature  he  had  accustomed  to 
living  freely,  going  from  a  fine  holiday  dinner  at  home  to  a 
grander  country  excursion,  and  to  celebrate  all  the  feast- 
days  with  good  eating.  They  gave  each  other  presents  of 
heavy  gold  jewellery,  and,  though  contenting  themselves 
with  hired  carriages,  had  always  a  secret  wish  to  keep  a 
carriage  of  their  own ;  and  he  bought  earrings,  rings,  and 
brooches  for  his  wife,  and  presented  her  with  shiny  jet 
mantles  such  as  our  townsfolk  love.  And  all  this  came 
while  living  off  the  income  from  the  lottery  bank  ;  in- 
deed, he  speculated  a  little  with  Government  money,  but 
did  not  gamble  on  the  lottery  ever.  This  was  past,  the 
time  of  purity  and  innocence.  When  had  he  staked  the 
first  time — he,  who  ought  to  have  kept  himself  from  that 
contagion,  and  only  lived  off  the  lottery,  without  letting 
it  fasten  on  him,  live  off  it  as  one  may  drink  poison  without 
dying  of  it,  though  the  same  poison  laid  on  an  open  wound 
will  kill  ?  When  had  he  first  staked  ?  He  did  not  remember 
now ;  he  saw  confusedly  a  great  Wednesday  stand  out  with 
such  vivid  heat  that  it  seemed  like  a  live  coal,  as  if  it  must 
burn  him.  It  was  all  a  confusion,  in  which  the  mental  dis- 
order of  the  Cabalists  who  crowded  into  his  shop,  touching 
him  with  their  feverish  hands  and  infecting  him,  and  their 
money — got  God  knows  how  or  where — passing  from  their 
hands  to  his,  all  gave  him  the  impression  of  a  tragedy. 
That  mental  malady  that  burned  in  their  blood,  young  and 
old,  rich  and  poor,  powerful  and  insignificant,  had  passed  on 
to  him ;  from  being  with  them,  breathing  their  atmosphere, 
it  had  soaked  through  everything,  and  come  into  his  very 
life.  First  of  all,  greed  of  gain  had  made  him  give  credit  to 
the  Cabalists,  keeping  back  always  so  much  per  cent,  off 
their  stakes  when  they  played  on  credit,  while  he  asked  for 
delay  from  the  Government ;  then,  as  the  deviations  became 
continually  larger,  as  the  hole  got  deeper  till  there  was  a 
precipice  down  to  it,  he  began  to  gamble  too,  unlucky 
wretch,  tempting  Fate,  having  the  delusion  he  was  in  her 


DON  CRESCENZIO'S  TRIALS  319 

favour,  and  playing  on  credit,  with  the  huge  delusion  that 
he  might  win  a  large,  an  immense  sum. 

Ah !  the  unlucky  wretch,  he  knew  quite  well  that  hardly 
anyone  ever  wins.  He  was  well  acquainted  with  the  frightful 
law  of  averages,  that  shows  that  winning  is  so  rare  it  is 
difficult  to  find  cases  of  it.  It  is  an  infinitesimal  chance, 
like  one  planet  meeting  another  every  two  or  three  hundred 
years  by  inflexible  sidereal  laws.  He  knew  well  that 
Government  always  wins,  always ;  that  it  takes  sixteen 
million  francs  from  Naples  alone  every  year — from  all  Italy, 
sixty  million  of  francs.  But  what  did  that  signify  ?  He 
went  on  giving  credit  to  the  Cabalists  ;  he  showed  at  their 
meetings ;  he  lent  a  hand  to  imprison  Don  Pasqualino, 
being  blinded  himself.  The  vulgar  luxury  of  his  house 
increased  ;  his  wife  got  fat,  she  was  red  and  shiny  from 
eating  too  much,  and  now  she  was  going  to  have  another 
child.  She  wore  a  cream  silk  dress  covered  with  lace  ;  her 
fat  hands,  laden  with  rings,  lay  on  her  already  rounded 
figure  with  that  quietly  satisfied  air  of  women  easy  in  their 
feelings.  What  a  disaster  if  on  Wednesday  he  did  not 
bring  the  money  to  the  Secretary  !  He,  his  wife  and  children, 
and  the  one  to  be  born,  would  be  in  wretchedness,  and  he 
himself  in  prison. 

Now,  every  time  the  word  '  Wednesday '  came  to  the 
mind  of  the  handsome  lottery  banker,  with  his  well-kept 
chestnut  beard  and  white  hands,  a  little  warm  blood  flowed 
into  his  pale  cheeks,  and  he  felt  them  burn  like  two  flames 
of  fire.  He  had  dragged  himself  away  from  the  San 
Giacomo  doorposts,  and  was  going  among  the  crowd, 
letting  himself  be  carried  along,  feeling  a  slight  dizziness 
that  came  from  his  being  wrapt  up  always  in  the  same 
maddening  idea.  He  must  do  something,  gain  money,  try 
and  get  it  from  those  who  owed  it  to  him  and  had  it,  so  that 
on  Wednesday  he  and  his  family  would  not  be  ruined. 
Where  was  he  to  go  ?  He  must  look  for  money  at  any 
cost ;  he  would  drag  it  from  his  debtors'  vitals.  He  was 
not  going  to  die  for  them ;  he  would  not  go  to  San  Francesco 
for  these  four  scoundrels,  who  had  drawn  him  into  dishonest 
courses.  Money,  money  was  what  he  wanted  ;  he  thirsted, 
hungered  for  it ;  it  was  his  soul — his  body  asked  for  that 
only.  Money,  or  he  would  die  ;  that  was  all. 

Now,  having  made  up  his  mind,  he  set  out  on  the  search 
for  some  of  those  indebted  to  him.  They  had  gradually  all 


320  THE  LAND  OF  COCKA  YNE 

deserted  his  shop,  not  being  able  to  stand  his  constant 
demands  for  money.  They  took  to  some  other  lottery  bank 
the  few  pence  they  managed  to  get  hold  of  by  some  dark 
miracle,  God  knows  how  or  where.  Out  of  fear  for  his 
just  anger,  they  had  even  taken  away  his  profits,  ungrateful 
now,  as  well  as  dishonest.  However,  he  knew  where  they 
all  lived ;  he  wished  to  set  on  them  ;  he  would  not  let  them 
go  till  they  felt  his  despair  as  if  it  was  their  own.  He  would 
wait  at  their  homes,  at  their  doors,  in  the  streets  they  went 
through ;  he  would  speak  to  them,  shout  at  them,  and  weep. 
He  would  give  them  such  a  fright  that  the  State  money 
would  be  got  out  of  them,  dragged  out  by  his  rush  of  despair. 
It  was  a  question  of  life  and  death ;  his  wife  and  children 
were  not  to  be  sent  to  beggary  because  he  had  been  too 
easy,  too  weak,  too  much  of  a  boy.  He  must  get  the  money 
— he  must.  The  crowd  had  now  carried  him  to  the  upper 
part  of  Toledo  Street,  while  he  was  making  up  a  good  plan 
in  his  head  how  to  carry  out  best  this  burning  desire  to  save 
himself  in  a  way  likely  to  effect  his  purpose.  Let  us  see  : 
where  would  he  go  first  that  springtide  noon  ?  Where 
would  he  say  his  first  word  ?  He  must  make  no  mistake  ; 
he  must  try  and  strike  a  sure  blow,  or  otherwise  .  .  .  He 
could  not  think  of  non-success ;  it  was  a  notion  he  could  not 
bear.  Now  he  had  stopped  in  Carita  Square,  fixing  his 
eyes,  which  had  a  thick  cloud  before  them,  on  Carlo  Poerio's 
statue.  The  people  passing  hustled  him  on  all  sides ;  the 
shouts  of  street-sellers  and  voices  of  passers-by  struck  him 
as  a  vague,  indistinct  noise.  He  thought  a  minute  of  going 
to  the  Marquis  di  Formosa's,  the  person  most  largely  in- 
debted to  him ;  but  amongst  them  all  the  Marquis  was 
the  one  he  was  sorriest  for,  from  his  own  misfortunes ;  also 
he  was  the  one  least  likely  to  have  money.  Now,  Don 
Crescenzio  did  not  want  to  begin  by  being  unkind  to  an 
unhappy  man,  nor  did  he  want  to  make  a  bad  start ;  he 
was  too  much  afraid  of  not  succeeding — he  was  too  dis- 
couraged. He  would  go  last  to  the  Marquis  di  Formosa — 
afterwards,  as  a  last  resource.  The  safest  of  those  he  had 
given  credit  to  was  Ninetto  Costa,  the  stockbroker — the 
safest  because,  in  spite  of  his  falling  behind  with  his  pay- 
ments, he  always  could  get  money  to  borrow ;  some  still 
believed  in  his  star.  Ninetto  Costa  had  got  into  debt  several 
times  with  him,  but  had  always  paid  until  the  last  time, 
when  it  was  for  rather  a  large  sum;  but  for  three  weeks 


DON  CRESCENZWS  TRIALS  321 

past  he  had  got  so  out  of  pocket  he  could  not  give  a  farthing 
to  Don  Crescenzio.  What  did  it  matter  ?  Costa  was  a 
moneyed  man. 

The  lottery  banker  went  forward  towards  the  Exchange, 
knowing  this  was  an  hour  that  Ninetto  Costa  would  be 
there  for  certain.  But  among  the  band  of  bankers,  stock- 
brokers, merchants,  and  outside  brokers,  who  were  chattering, 
talking  things  over,  and  vociferating,  he  looked  vainly  for 
him  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour.  Then  he  asked  two  or  three 
men  for  him,  and  got  a  bad  reception.  Some  shrugged  their 
shoulders,  others  gave  an  ironical  smile,  and  all  set  at  once 
to  speak  of  their  own  business,  leaving  Don  Crescenzio  alone. 
He,  who  with  the  extraordinary  trustingness  of  people  in 
desperation  had  gone  in  there  quite  quieted  down,  already 
sure  of  a  good  result,  felt  a  burning  from  his  mouth  to  the 
pit  of  his  stomach.  But  where  was  Ninetto  Costa,  then  ? 
He  remembered  having  gone  to  call  on  him  once  at  Caro- 
lina Road,  where  the  smart  stockbroker  had  a  set  of  rooms 
furnished  with  striking  youthful  luxury ;  but  he  had  changed 
his  house  some  time  before — it  was  at  the  beginning  of  his 
downfall.  Now  Don  Crescenzio  remembered  having  gone 
with  him  one  evening,  on  leaving  the  meeting  in  Nardones 
Road,  up  Taverna  Penta  Road  to  a  very  ordinary  house 
there,  which  Costa  was  reduced  to,  just  opposite  San 
Giacomo  Road.  He  must  find  him,  at  any  rate,  whether 
alive  or  dead.  Ninetto  Costa  would  give  him  the  eleven 
hundred  francs  he  owed  him,  and  at  least  a  part  of  the  debt 
to  Government  would  be  paid ;  a  small  part,  it  is  true,  but 
something,  at  least.  He  went  up  again  towards  Taverna 
Penta  Road,  and  the  sulky  door-keeper  looked  at  him,  and 
said  : 

'  Fourth-floor.' 

'  But  is  he  at  home  ?' 

'  I  don't  know,"  she  grumbled. 

Patiently,  determined  not  to  be  discouraged  by  anything, 
he  went  up  the  narrow,  steep  stair,  and  from  the  landings 
and  doors  came  out  the  sound  of  children's  whining  and 
women's  quarrelling  voices  and  noisy  sewing-machines.  On 
Ninetto  Costa's  door  was  a  torn  visiting-card  fastened  up  by 
four  pins.  He  knocked  twice.  No  one  came ;  there  was 
no  sound  from  inside.  He  knocked  louder,  the  third  time — 
nothing  yet.  The  fourth  time  he  gave  the  bell  a  hard 
pull,  and  a  very  light  step  could  be  heard ;  then  no  sound 

21 


322  THE  LAND  OF  COCK  A  YNE 

nor  movement,  as  if  the  person  who  had  come  to  the  door 
was  listening  intently. 

'Don  Ninetto,  it  is  I.  Open — especially  as  I  know  that 
you  are  in  the  house,  and  I  won't  go  away,'  the  lottery 
banker  said  in  a  loud  voice. 

There  was  a  few  minutes'  pause  again.  Then  the  door 
opened  softly,  and  the  stockbroker's  face  appeared,  sadly 
altered.  Now  all  his  youthfulness,  prolonged  by  high  living 
and  cosmetics,  had  fled.  His  hair  was  sparse  on  the  temples 
and  on  the  top  of  his  head.  Two  flabby,  yellowish  bags 
underlined  his  eyes,  and  thousands  of  small  wrinkles  came 
down  in  all  directions,  marking  the  face  indelibly.  The 
jacket  that  hardly  covered  him  had  the  collar  turned  up,  as 
if  he  were  cold  or  wished  to  hide  his  linen. 

'  Is  it  you  ?'  he  asked,  with  a  sickly  smile. 

He  brought  Don  Crescenzio  into  the  parlour,  a  shabby 
lodging-house  sitting-room  wkh  red  chair-covers  and  curtains 
dulled  by  smoke,  and  sat  down  opposite  to  him,  looking  at 
him  with  dull  eyes  which  had  lost  all  expression. 

'  It  is  I.  I  went  to  look  for  you  at  the  Exchange.  Have 
you  not  been  there  to-day  ?'  Don  Crescenzio  asked,  feeling  a 
burning  at  his  stomach  again. 

'  No,  I  did  not  go  to-day.' 

'  Why  not  ?' 

'  No  matter.' 

4  Have  you  not  been  there  for  some  time  ?' 

'  Not  for — yes  ...  for  three  or  four  days.' 

'  What  have  you  been  doing  ?'  Don  Crescenzio  asked 
anxiously. 

'  Nothing,'  said  the  other,  with  a  gesture  that  was  too  clear. 

'  Have  you  gone  bankrupt  ?' 

Ninetto  Costa  shut  his  eyes,  shivering,  as  if  he  did  not 
want  to  see  something  ;  then  he  said  : 

'  Yes,  I  have.' 

'  This  is  ruin,  ruin  !'  shouted  Don  Crescenzio,  throwing  up 
his  arms  heavenwards. 

The  other  bit  his  moustache  convulsively. 

'At  least,  you  have  kept  something.  That  eleven 
hundred  francs  you  owe  me — you  must  have  kept  it,  have 
you  not  ?' 

Ninetta  Costa  looked  at  him  dreamily. 

'  If  I  do  not  get  this  eleven  hundred  francs  by  Tuesday 
evening,  I  must  go  prison  !'  the  lottery  banker  shrieked  out. 


DON  CREBCENZWS  TRIALS  323 

Ninetto  Costa  hung  his  head. 

'  I  must  go  to  prison,  and  my  family  will  have  no  bread. 
You  must  give  me  the  eleven  hundred  francs,  you  know  !' 
shrieked  Don  Crescenzio  in  a  great  rage. 

'  I  have  not  got  it.' 

'  Look  for  it.' 

'  I  shall  not  find  it.     No  one  will  give  it  to  me.' 

'  You  must  find  it ;  I  cannot  go  to  prison  for  you.    Find  it.' 

'  It  is  impossible,  Don  Crescenzio,'  said  the  stockbroker, 
with  tears  in  his  eyes. 

'  Nothing  is  impossible  when  it  has  to  do  with  a  debt  like 
this,  when  it  is  a  question  of  saving  an  honest  man  from 
ruin.  For  pity's  sake,  Don  Ninetto ;  you  know  how  dear 
honour  is.' 

'  Yes,  I  do,'  said  the  other,  turning  his  face  away. 

'  For  pity's  sake  don't  forsake  me.  I  have  done  you  a 
favour  :  don't  be  so  ungrateful.' 

'  I  have  not  got  a  farthing,  and  I  cannot  find  one.' 

'  But  have  you  no  friends  or  relations  left  ?' 

'  None — not  one.    I  have  gone  bankrupt;  that  is  enough.' 

•'  What  will  you  do  ?' 

'  I  am  going — going  to  Rome,'  the  stockbroker  brought 
out,  after  a  slight  hesitation. 

'What  to  do?' 

'  Who  knows  ?     Perhaps  I  shall  make  my  fortune  there.' 

'  But  you  ought  not  to  forsake  me  ;  you,  a  man,  must 
give  me  the  eleven  hundred  francs  before  you  leave.' 

'  I  have  not  got  it.  I  can't  get  it.  Don't  torment  me, 
Don  Crescenzio  ;  I  have  not  a  farthing.' 

'  Give  me  your  signature  to  a  bill ;  some  banker  that  you 
are  acquainted  with  will  cash  it.' 

'  All  my  bills  are  presented.' 

'  Pawn  your  jewellery.' 

'  I  have  sold  it  all.' 

'  Then  give  me  your  watch.' 

'  It  is  sold.' 

'  Then  ask  your  mother  or  your  uncle.' 

1  My  uncle  will  perhaps  do  me  the  kindness  to  support 
my  mother.  The  mother  of  a  bankrupt,  you  understand,  is 
never  very  well  received.' 

'  For  how  much  have  you  failed  ?' 

'  For  two  hundred  thousand  francs.' 

'  All  through  the  lottery,  was  it  ?' 

21 — 2 


324  THE  LAND  OF  COCKA  YNE 

1 1  lost  all  there,'  Ninetto  Costa  said,  with  a  decided 
gesture. 

'  But  how  can  you  leave  me  to  such  ruin  ?'  Don  Crescenzio 
rejoined,  nearly  crying  ;  '  how  have  you  the  heart  ?' 

'  How  have  I  the  heart  ?'  the  other  said,  in  a  shaky  voice. 
'  I  am  leaving  my  mother  with  nothing  to  support  her,  you 
know.  I  am  going  to  Rome.  If  I  make  any  money  I  will 
send  you  some." 

'  When  do  you  go  ?' 

'  To-morrow.  .  .  .     Yes,  to-morrow.' 

'  Can  you  send  me  money  by  Tuesday  ?' 

'  I  don't  think  so,  Don  Crescenzio — I  don't  think  so,' 
Ninetto  Costa  said,  with  desperate  calmness. 

'  It  must  be  by  Wednesday,  you  know ;  if  not,  I  am  ruined.' 

'  I  was  ruined  three  days  ago.' 

'  Holy  Virgin  !  who  has  blinded  me  ?'  the  lottery-keeper 
said,  crying. 

'  You  want  to  kill  me  before  the  time,'  Ninetto  Costa 
muttered. 

'  What  are  you  saying  ?' 

'  Nothing.  But  keep  calm.  Everything  may  come  right 
gradually.' 

'  Wednesday  is  the  last  day  I  have  got — Wednesday.' 

'  Perhaps  Government  will  give  you  time.  Find  out 
some  way ;  write  to  the  Minister,  write  to  the  King.  I 
must  start  off.' 

He  pointed  to  a  small  bag,  not  half  full,  with  a  feeble  smile. 

'  But,  really,  can  you  not  give  me  anything  ?' 

'  I  would  do  it,  Don  Crescenzio,  but  I  swear  to  you  that 
I  have  not  got  a  farthing.  I  am  off  to  Rome ;  then  I  will 
see.  .  .  .' 

Disappointed  and  excited,  Don  Crescenzio  got  up  to  go 
away,  half  angry  and  half  sorry  for  Costa.  He  wanted  to 
rush  off  in  search  of  his  other  clients ;  he  wanted  to  find 
money,  to  leave  that  sad  house,  the  sad  company  of  a  man 
more  desperate  than  himself.  He  wanted  to  go  away. 
Ninetto  Costa  looked  at  him  in  a  dull  way,  keeping  up  that 
pallid  smile  on  his  white  lips,  the  absent-minded  smile  of  a 
man  quite  indifferent  to  earthly  affairs.  Still,  the  other  once 
more  insisted  in  a  vague  way,  as  if  in  justice  to  himself, 
thinking  he  had  not  done  enough  to  get  his  money.  But 
the  stockbroker  gave  him  such  a  suffering  look  he  said  no 
more. 


DON  CRESCENZIO' S  TRIALS  325 

'  Good-bye,  Don  Crescenzio ;  for — give  me.' 

'  Good-bye,  Don  Ninetto  ;  don't  forget  me  at  Rome.' 

'  Have  no  doubt  of  it,'  said  the  other,  in  a  weak,  queer 
voice. 

They  took  each  other's  hands  without  pressing  them — 
cold,  feeble  hands,  both.  As  in  a  dream,  Ninetto  Costa 
went  to  the  door  with  the  lottery  banker ;  silently  they 
looked  at  each  other,  but  did  not  speak.  Then  the  door 
shut  again  with  such  a  queer  decisive  sound  that  the  lottery 
banker,  going  slowly  downstairs,  gave  a  start.  He  felt 
almost  inclined  to  turn  back  ;  it  came  to  his  mind  that 
Costa  had  told  him  he  had  not  a  farthing,  and,  then,  that 
flabby  travelling  bag  with  nothing  in  it.  But  the  thought 
of  his  own  sorrows  distracted  him  from  his  pity  and  from 
any  suspicion  of  greater  misfortune.  Now,  still  on  foot,  to 
spare  the  money  for  a  cab  even,  he  began  to  run  up  Toledo 
Street,  as  if  prodded  by  a  goad,  to  go  to  San  Sebastiano 
Road,  where  Marzano,  the  old  lawyer,  lived,  another  indebted 
to  him.  He,  too,  because  of  his  professional  position,  even 
if  he  had  no  money  to  pay  up  at  once,  would  be  able  to  get 
a  loan ;  at  any  rate,  he  owed  eight  hundred  francs  to  Don 
Crescenzio,  and  he  would  give  them  to  him  ;  indeed,  Don 
Crescenzio  would  sit  there  till  he  got  them,  even  if  he  had 
to  wait  till  night.  He  knew  his  house  very  well,  a  poor 
house  indeed  :  for  Marzano  staked  everything — all  he  earned 
— and  he  even  supported  a  cobbler  at  sixty  francs  a  month, 
a  Cabalist,  who  wrote  lottery  numbers  with  charcoal  on  dirty 
pieces  of  paper. 

Don  Crescenzio  went  up  the  steps  four  at  a  time,  running, 
because  a  voice  in  his  heart  told  him  he  would  find  the 
money  at  Signer  Marzano's ;  he  felt  a  good  presentiment. 
Still,  when  he  put  his  hand  to  the  iron  ring  that  hung  from 
a  greasy  cord,  a  sudden  alarm  took  him,  the  fear  of  not 
succeeding,  a  horrible  fear  that  paralyzed  his  strength,  the 
nervousness  of  the  unfortunate  when  life  and  death  are  at 
stake.  A  dragging  step  was  heard,  and  a  shrill  voice  asked  : 

'  Who  is  it  ?' 

'  Friends — a  friend,'  the  lottery  banker  stammered  hastily. 

The  door  opened  suspiciously,  and  the  cobbler's  mean 
face  showed,  all  marked  with  pimples.  His  blear,  red, 
stupid  eyes  stared  at  Don  Crescenzio. 

'  Do  you  want  to  see  the  lawyer  ?'  he  asked,  drying  his 
hands  on  a  dirty  apron. 


326  THE  LAND  OF  COCKA  YNE 

1  Yes,  sir.' 

'  He  cannot  attend  to  you.' 

'  Is  he  busy  ?' 

'  He  is  ill.' 

'  111,  is  he  ?     Not  much  the  matter,  I  hope  ?' 

'  He  has  had  a  stroke.     Wishing  you  better  health ' 

I  Good  God !'  shouted  Don  Crescenzio,  throwing  his  hat 
down  on  the  ground  in  despair. 

'  It  was  the  lottery  did  it.  ...  Indeed,  he  always  starved 
himself ;  he  did  not  live  well.  He  ate  very  little  and  drank 
water,  you  see.' 

'  Oh,  God !  God !'  Don  Crescenzio  whispered  in  lamen- 
tation. 

'  It  is  God's  will,'  the  cobbler  said  softly,  pulling  out  a 
little  bit  of  dirty  paper  and  taking  a  pinch  of  yellowish  snuff. 
'  When  it  is  God's  will,  what  can  one  do  ?  ...  Don't 
despair.  Till  the  last  there  is  hope.' 

I 1  know  that ;  it  is  why  I  am  so  despairing !'  shrieked 
Don  Crescenzio. 

'  I  have  a  right  to  complain,'  the  silly  fellow  rejoined.  '  I 
would  have  got  him  a  fortune.  I  expected  peace  in  my  old 
days  from  him,  and  in  the  meanwhile,  by  his  own  folly,  he 
is  at  death's  door,  and  leaves  me  to  wretchedness.  Do  you 
see?' 

'  But  how  was  it  ?  how  did  it  happen  ?' 

'  Wait  a  minute.  I  am  just  coming.'  And  he  went  out 
of  the  room. 

Don  Crescenzio  looked  round  him,  stupefied  with  sorrow. 
The  wretched  room  had  no  other  furniture  but  some  old 
lawyer's  bookcases,  choke-full  of  dusty  papers,  a  small  table, 
and  two  soiled  straw  chairs.  There  was  a  glass  on  the 
table,  with  two  fingers  of  bluish  wine  in  it — the  thick,  heavy 
Sicilian  wine.  The  floor  had  not  been  swept  for  a  long 
time,  the  wall  was  full  of  spiders'  webs,  the  window-panes 
were  covered  with  dust,  and  a  smell  of  dirty  staleness  and 
mustiness  caught  the  throat.  And  this  was  the  lawyer's 
house — of  him  that  had  been  one  of  the  best  advocates  of  his 
day,  and  had  earned  thousands  of  pounds  in  his  profession  ! 
Don  Crescenzio  felt  his  heart  bleed;  his  hands  wrere  like 
ice.  Had  he  come  here,  to  this  abode  of  poverty,  shame, 
and  death,  to  look  for  his  eight  hundred  francs  to  save 
himself  ?  What  madness,  what  madness  his  had  been ! 
Would  it  not  be  better  to  run  away,  as  he  was  finding  every- 


DON  CRESCENZWS  TRIALS  327 

where  the  same  traces  of  dishonour   and  wretchedness — 
everywhere  ?     But  the  cobbler  came  back. 

'  What  is  he  doing  ?'  Don  Crescenzio  asked  in  a  whisper. 

'  He  is  in  a  stupor.' 

'  Is  he  asleep?' 

'  No ;  it  is  from  the  disease.' 

'  What  has  been  done  for  him  ?' 

'  He  has  been  bled ;  then,  he  has  an  ice  blister  on  his 
head,  and  another  on  his  chest.' 

'  Does  he  speak  at  all  ?' 

'  He  does  not  understand  what  is  said.' 

'  Has  he  become  powerless  ?' 

'  Only  on  his  right  side  ?' 

'  What  does  the  doctor  say  ?' 

'  What  can  he  say  ?     It  is  a  case  of  death.' 

'  Is  the  doctor  coming  back  ?' 

'  Who  can  say  ?  There  is  nothing  to  pay  him  with.  I 
found  seven  francs  and  a  nickel  watch  that  won't  pawn.  I 
have  spent  three  francs  already  on  ice.  When  the  seven 
francs  are  done,  we  are  at  an  end  of  our  resources.' 

'  But  how  did  it  happen  ?  how  did  it  happen  ?'  Don  Cres- 
cenzio asked  again  desperately. 

'  Humph  !  there  has  been  such  a  lot  of  things.  He  has 
had  some  unpleasantnesses,  you  see.  A  man  is  always  a 
man.  .  .  .  He  needed  money  ...  he  tried  to  get  it  in  all 
sorts  of  ways.' 

'  What  did  he  do  ?'  asked  the  other,  alarmed. 

'  Evil-minded  people  say  he  forged  stamped  paper — wash- 
ing, you  know,  what  was  written  on  it  already,  and  putting 
it  to  use  again.  But  it  can't  be  true.  He  leaves  me  to 
beggary ;  he  has  been  ungrateful  to  me ;  but  it  can't  be 
true.  I  will  never  believe  it.  It  seems  that  the  ill-natured 
people  got  at  the  President  of  the  Consiglio  dell'  Ordine,  who 
called  him  rather  ugly  things.  It  seems,  in  short,  there  were 
unpleasantnesses.' 

'  Poor  man  !  poor  man  !'  Don  Crescenzio  called  out  in  a 
low  voice. 

'  This  summons  to  the  President  was  a  fatal  thing  for 
him.  You  may  think  for  an  honest  man  to  feel  himself 
insulted  is  unbearable.  Signer  Marzano  wished  to  go  away 
to  some  village  where  there  is  better  breeding.' 

'  To  go  away  at  his  age  with  seven  francs  in  his  pocket !' 
'  I  would  have  gone  with  him,'  the  silly  cobbler  muttered 


3a8  THE  LAND  OF  COCKA  YNE 

modestly.  '  I  was  getting  ready  to  go  with  him,  out  of  love 
to  him ;  and  as  to  the  money — that  is  the  real  reason  of  the 
stroke.' 

'  How  could  it  be?' 

'You  know,  sir,  that  my  mathematical  labours,  with 
God's  help,  have  always  brought  in  some  money  to  the 
advocate.' 

'  Yes,  some  small  sum  every  three  or  four  months,'  Don 
Crescenzio  remarked  sceptically. 

'  You  are  mistaken ;  one  may  say  that  I  benefited  him, 
and  these  wretched  sixty  francs  he  gave  me  every  month, 
for  me  not  to  clap  on  soles  any  longer,  but  work  at  necro- 
mancy, were  not  even  the  hundredth  part  of  what  he  won 
each  month.  Now  he  is  leaving  me,  ungrateful  fellow  !  like 
this  .  .  .  enough :  I  may  tell  you  I  had  given  certain  numbers 
to  him  symbolically,  numbers  that  must  necessarily  come 
out ;  and  they  did  come,  you  know.' 

'Then,  he  won  ?' 

'  No,  nothing ;  he  did  not  understand — he  staked  on  others' 
figures — his  mind  is  not  trustworthy  now.  When  he  knew 
it  he  got  the  stroke.  .  .  .  To  your  health,  sir.' 

'  But  had  you  really  told  him  what  were  good  numbers  ?' 

'  I  swear  it  before  God  ;  but  he  did  not  understand.' 

'  Why  did  you  not  play  them  ?' 

'  You  know  quite  well  that  we  cannot  play.' 

'  Ah,  yes,  that  is  true.' 

They  stopped  speaking ;  the  cobbler  put  the  glass  to  his 
lips  and  took  a  sip  of  wine. 

'  I  would  like  to  see  him,'  Don  Crescenzio  said  sud- 
denly. 

They  went  into  the  small  bedroom ;  it  was  poor  and  dirty 
like  the  study.  Marzano,  the  advocate,  lay  on  a  wretched 
iron  bed,  raised  on  pillows,  whose  covers  were  of  doubtful 
whiteness ;  a  lump  of  ice  was  on  his  bald  head,  another  on 
the  bare,  skeleton-like  breast,  and  his  thin,  small  body  was 
covered  by  a  brown  horse-blanket.  On  the  night  table  was 
a  tumbler  of  water  with  a  bit  of  ice  in  it ;  the  dying  man's 
right  hand  was  wrapped  in  the  blood-letting  bandages.  All 
his  right  side,  from  the  face  to  the  foot,  was  struck  rigid, 
numb  already,  while  his  left  hand  went  on  trembling, 
trembling,  and  all  the  left  side  of  his  face  often  twitched 
convulsively.  A  confused  stammering  came  from  his  lips  ; 
all  his  gentle,  good-natured  expression  was  gone,  leaving 


DON  CRESCENZIO' S  TRIALS  329 

on  that  old  face,  half  belonging  to  death  already,  the  marks 
of  a  passion  that  had  got  to  be  shameful. 

'  Signer  Marzano !  Signer  Marzano !'  Don  Crescenzio 
called  out,  leaning  over  his  bed. 

The  sick  man  set  his  eyes,  veiled  by  a  curious  cloud,  on 
the  lottery-keeper's  face,  but  the  expression  did  not  change 
nor  the  stammering  stop. 

'  He  doesn't  recognise  you,'  said  the  cobbler,  taking  snuff. 

Don  Crescenzio  left  the  room  at  once,  feeling  the  night- 
mare of  it  weighing  on  his  mind. 

'You  are  his  friend:  will  you  leave  him  something  ?'  the 
cobbler  asked.  '  I  have  only  four  francs ;  he  will  die  like 
a  dog.' 

Then  all  Don  Crescenzio's  suppressed  sorrow  burst  out. 

'  He  owes  me  eight  hundred  francs,  and  I  am  ruined  if  I 
do  not  get  it  by  Wednesday.  He  is  dying  ;  but  I  am  left, 
and  I  am  tortured.  He  will  die  ;  but  my  children  will  sleep 
on  church  steps  in  a  month.  He  at  least  is  dying,  but  we 
shall  all  come  to  desperate  straits,  you  see.' 

'  Excuse  me,  I  did  not  know,'  the  cobbler  said,  alarmed. 

'  I  have  been  assassinated,'  sobbed  out  the  other. 

'  Be  quiet,  he  may  hear  you ;  what  can  you  expect  from 
him  ?'  And  he  took  the  last  sip  of  the  bluish  wine  left  in  the 
bottom  of  the  tumbler. 

Don  Crescenzio  fled.  Now  at  intervals  he  felt  his  head 
going,  and  he  needed  to  say  the  word  '  Wednesday  '  to  gather 
himself  together.  Still,  instinctively,  with  that  automatic 
style  of  moving  of  unhappy  people  who  go  to  meet  their 
destiny,  he  went  up  by  Porto  Alba  again  towards  Bagnara 
Lane,  where  Professor  Colaneri  lived.  He,  too,  owed  him 
money,  and  promised  to  give  it  week  by  week,  but  had 
always  sent  him  away  with  empty  hands  or  put  him  off 
with  small  sums.  The  ex-priest  lived  on  the  fourth-floor  of 
a  house  in  Bagnara  Lane,  with  an  unlucky  clear-starcher 
who  had  given  heed  to  his  blandishments  and  passed  for 
his  wife.  They  had  four  unhealthy  children  with  big  heads 
and  crooked  legs,  and  all  lived  in  two  rooms — quarrelling, 
crying,  beating  each  other,  and  weeping  all  day.  He  had 
hidden  from  the  clear-starcher  that  he  had  been  a  priest ; 
the  unlucky  woman,  thinking  to  become  a  lady,  gave  in  to 
him,  and  for  six  years  had  lived  in  a  state  of  servitude, 
between  holding  children  and  doing  servant's  work  of  the 
roughest  kind  amid  indecent  wretchedness,  among  that 


330  THE  LAND  OF  COCKA  YNE 

brood  of  ugly,  howling,  for  ever  hungry  children,  whom  she 
avenged  herself  on  by  slaps  for  the  blows  her  husband  was 
liberal  with  towards  her.  It  was  a  hellish  house,  where  the 
father  was  always  sulkily  thinking  over  mean,  sometimes 
guilty,  methods  of  getting  money  for  gambling.  Twice 
Don  Crescenzio  had  gone  there,  but  he  had  been  present  at 
such  disgusting  scenes  that  he  had  rushed  away,  hunted 
out  almost  by  the  laundress's  bad  words  and  the  four  demons' 
howls.  But  now  what  did  that  matter  ?  Colaneri  owed 
him  seven  hundred  francs  and  more ;  of  a  debt  of  nine 
hundred  francs  he  had  only  paid  two  hundred  in  three  or 
four  months,  or  rather  less.  Colaneri,  by  Gad !  was  not 
ruined  like  Ninetto  Costa,  or  apoplectic  like  Marzano — 
Colaneri  must  pay. 

'  Is  Professor  Colaneri  at  home  ?' 

'  Yes,  sir,'  an  old  woman  who  acted  as  door-keeper  said. 

Then  he  went  up  quickly ;  the  laundress  came  to  the 
door  to  open,  unkempt,  a  greasy  kitchen  apron  over  a 
shabby  dress.  Her  cheeks  were  fallen  in,  her  breasts 
emaciated,  and  a  tooth  was  wanting  in  front,  through  which 
she  whistled  a  little. 

'  I  would  like  to  see  Professor  Colaneri.' 

'  He  is  not  here,'  she  said  quickly,  leaving  the  other  still 
outside. 

'  He  is  in — I  know  he  is,'  said  Don  Crescenzio  in  a  rage. 
'  At  any  rate,  it  is  no  use  denying  it.  I  will  wait  for  him  on 
the  stairs :  he  must  come  out  some  time.' 

'  Then  come  in,'  she  said  unwillingly.  As  the  lottery- 
keeper  was  coming  in,  a  dirty  boy  with  water  on  the  head 
got  a  slap.  Whilst  he  waited  in  the  room  that  served  as  a 
parlour,  study  and  dining-room,  from  beyond — that  is  to  say, 
the  kitchen,  in  the  bedroom,  and  even  the  landing-place — 
cries  burst  out  from  the  quarrelsome  family.  But  in  a  silent 
interval  the  Professor  came  in,  putting  on  an  old  jacket  all 
spotted  with  grease,  and  setting  his  spectacles  on  his  nose 
with  an  ecclesiastical  gesture. 

'  I  have  come  for  my  money,'  Don  Crescenzio  said  brutally. 

'  I  have  got  none,'  the  debtor  answered  sulkily. 

'  That  does  not  matter  to  me.     You  must  give  it  to  me.' 

'  I  have  no  money.' 

'  Find  some.  I  must  have  my  seven  hundred  francs,  you 
know.' 

'  I  have  not  got  it.' 


DON  CRESCENZIO' S  TRIALS  331 

'  Give  a  lien  on  your  salary  :  get  a  loan  that  way.' 

'  I  have  not  got  a  salary  now.' 

'  What !  are  you  not  a  professor  now  ?' 

'  No  ;  I  have  been  dismissed  from  my  post.' 

'  What !  are  you  dismissed  ?' 

'  Yes — turned  out  by  force.  I  was  accused  of  selling  the 
examination  papers  to  the  students.' 

'  It  was  not  true,  of  course  ?' 

'  Of  course  not.  But  the  plot  to  ruin  me  was  well  arranged. 
The  Senate  advised  me  to  resign.' 

'  So  you  are  on  the  pavement  ?' 

'  Yes ;  I  am  destitute.' 

Then  only  Don  Crescenzio  noticed  that  Professor 
Colaneri's  face  was  pallid  and  distorted.  But  this  third 
disappointment  enraged  him. 

'  I  don't  know  what  to  do  to  you ;  you  must  give  me  the 
seven  hundred  francs,  at  any  rate.' 

'  Have  you  got  five  francs  to  lend  me  ?' 

'  Don't  talk  nonsense  !  I  want  my  money — for  to-morrow 
at  latest,  mind.' 

'  Crescenzio,  you  are  putting  a  man  already  on  the  rack 
to  torture.' 

•That  is  fine  chatter.  I  can't  go  to  San  Francesco  on 
your  account.  You  are  so  many  murderers.  I  go  to  Costa 
for  money,  and  find  that  he  has  failed — that  he  is  going  off 
to  Rome,  to  do  he  knows  not  what.  If  it  is  true,  he  is  going 
to  Rome  .  .  .  and  I  get  no  money.  I  go  to  Marzano,  and 
find  him  half  dead.  Here  you  tell  me  you  are  on  the  pave- 
ment and  have  no  money.' 

'  We  are  all  ruined — all  of  us,'  muttered  the  ex-priest. 

'  Well,  you  all  want  to  kill  me,  do  you  ?  But  when  you 
needed  credit  I  gave  it  to  you  .  .  .  and  now  you  want  to  kill 
me  and  my  family  !  But  you  have  got  sons  also ;  you 
must  think  about  feeding  them — to-morrow  and  every  other 
day ;  you  ought  to  do  something.  You  will  think  of  me — 
think  of  my  babies — think  that  we  are  Christians,  too  !' 

'  Do  you  know  what  I  must  do  to-morrow  to  give  my 
little  ones  bread  ?' 

'  What  do  I  care  ?  I  know  you  will  give  it  to  them.  I 
know  that  my  children  are  not  to  go  fasting  while  yours  get 
their  food.' 

'  Well,  listen  :  I  am  not  a  priest  now ;  I  have  been  excom- 
municated, I  am  outside  the  pale  of  the  Church  ;  therefore 


332  THE  LAND  OF  COCKA  YNE 

I  will  get  no  help  there.  I  had  a  professor's  post,  a  good 
safe  thing,  but  I  have  lost  it ;  I  needed  money  too  much. 
Don't  ask  me  for  sad  confessions.  I  will  not  get  my  post 
again,  nor  any  other  ;  I  am  a  marked  man.' 

'  But  what  is  the  use  of  telling  me  about  these  sorrows  ? 
I  know  about  them.  I  know  they  will  do  my  affairs  no  good.' 

'  Look  here,  then :  I  have  no  outlook  ;  now,  as  I  have 
put  unlucky  beings  into  the  world,  I  feel  that  it  is  my  duty 
to  give  them  bread — at  least  that.  I  have  gambled  away 
on  the  lottery  what  they  had  as  a  certainty,  an  unfailing 
resource  ;  but  it  is  folly  to  think  of  that.  Therefore  I  have 
taken  the  great  decision,  once  for  all.' 

'What  are  you  referring  to?"  asked  Don  Crescenzio, 
much  astonished. 

'  To-morrow  I  am  going  to  accept  the  offer  the  Evan- 
gelical Society  has  made  me.  I  will  become  a  Protestant 
pastor.' 

'  Oh,  God !'  said  the  lottery-keeper,  astonished  above 
measure. 

'  As  you  say,'  said  the  other,  gulping  as  if  he  could  hardly 
swallow. 

'  And  you  will  give  up  our  religion  ?' 

'  I  am  leaving  it  through  hunger.' 

'And  that  other  ...  do  you  believe  in  it?' 

'  No,  I  do  not.' 

'  And  how  will  you  set  about  preaching  ?' 

'  I  will  do  it ;  I  will  get  accustomed  to  it.' 

'  You  will  have  to  abjure,  will  you  ?' 

'  Yes,  I  have  to  do  that.' 

'  Will  it  be  a  grand  ceremony  ?' 

'  A  very  grand  one.' 

They  spoke  in  a  whisper,  and  Colaneri's  cynical  face  was 
distorted,  as  if  he  could  not  stand  the  idea  of  abjuring.  Don 
Crescenzio,  too,  in  his  astonishment,  had  forgotten  his 
sorrow. 

'  You  have  got  to  apostatize  ?' 

'  Yes,  I  must  apostatize.' 

'  Well,  your  priest's  orders  have  been  taken  from  you.' 

'  Still,  to  deny  the  faith  is  a  different  thing,'  said  Colaneri 
darkly. 

'  Then,  it  distresses  you  very  much  to  do  it  ?' 

'  I  hate  to  do  it.' 

'  How  much  will  you  gain  by  it  ?' 


DON  CRESCENZIO' S  TRIALS  333 

'  Two  hundred  francs  a  month  in  some  village  they  will 
send  me  to.' 

'  It  is  hardly  enough  for  bread.' 

'  To  each  of  my  boys  that  turn  Protestant  they  will  give 
a  small  sum.  I  will  be  able  to  marry  their  mother.' 

'But  to  have  to  leave  Christ's  religion!'  exclaimed  Don 
Crescenzio,  with  that  horror  of  Protestantism  that  is  in  all 
humble  Neapolitan  consciences. 

'  What  would  you  have  ?  It  is  hunger  drives  me  to  it,' 
Colaneri  muttered  desperately. 

He  seemed  now  altogether  changed,  even  in  his  character  ; 
it  was  clear  to  him  now  how  fatal  his  rage  for  gambling  had 
been  ;  he  saw  what  he  had  done  against  himself  and  his  own 
gifts,  and  he  felt  an  unconquerable  distaste  for  that  apostasy. 
He  had  done  wicked  things ;  he  had  descended  to  crime, 
even,  of  a  coarse  kind,  having  got  corrupted  in  that  unhealthy 
atmosphere ;  but  now  he  found  the  punishment  in  front  of 
him,  he  trembled  and  lost  all  his  bravery ;  he  trembled  at 
having  to  deny  his  faith,  his  God,  for  a  loaf  of  bread. 

Don  Crescenzio  looked  at  him  and  said  nothing,  amazed. 
He  had  always  thought  Colaneri  a  scoundrel,  and,  if  he  had 
given  him  credit,  it  was  only  because  he  thought  he  could 
seize  his  salary.  But  now,  on  this  decisive  day,  he  saw  him 
cast  down,  moved  to  his  inmost  soul  by  an  awful  fear  of  the 
Divinity  he  had  already  betrayed  and  insulted,  whom  he 
was  again  outraging  by  his  apostasy.  Don  Crescenzio, 
although  small-minded,  felt  the  agony  of  that  conscience 
that  was  now  fighting  in  its  last  outpost,  having  got  to  the 
stage  where  human  endurance  ends,  the  hardest,  most 
wearing  hours  in  life.  So  he  dared  not  say  anything  more 
to  him  about  the  money.  He  stammered  : 

'  Your  wife — what  does  she  say  ?' 

'  She  would  like  to  prevent  me  doing  it,  except  for  the 
children's  sake.' 

'  The  poor  children,  must  they  lose  their  souls  also  ?' 

'  They  are  innocent.  The  Lord  sees ;  He  will  be  just. 
Besides,  why  has  He  set  me  with  my  back  to  the  wall  ? 
For  each  child  that  enters  the  Protestant  Church  they  give 
me  a  small  sum.' 

'When  will  this  come  off?'  Don  Crescenzio  asked,  after 
hesitating. 

'  In  a  month.  A  month  of  instruction  is  needed  for  the 
poor  innocents.' 


334  THE  LAND  OF  COCK  A  YNE 

'  It  will  be  too  late  for  me,'  the  other  said  in  a  low  tone, 
still  thinking  of  his  money. 

'  I  will  give  you  a  receipt  if  you  like,  then.' 

'  It  is  too  late.     I  am  ruined.' 

'  What  a  punishment — what  a  punishment !'  the  apostate 
said,  hiding  his  face  in  his  hands. 

'  I  am  going  away,'  Don  Crescenzio  said,  prostrate  now, 
in  a  state  of  utter  depression. 

'  Be  patient.' 

'  What  is  the  use  of  patience  ?  it  is  a  punishment !  You 
spoke  the  truth  just  now  :  it  is  a  chastisement !  I  am  going 
away ;  good-bye.' 

They  did  not  look  at  each  other  nor  say  another  word ; 
both  of  them  felt  seized  and  cowed  by  the  frightfulness  of 
the  punishment,  not  feeling  any  more  rage  or  rancour  in 
that  breaking-down  of  all  pride  and  vanity  that  the  Divine 
chastisement  brings.  When  he  was  on  the  stairs,  Don 
Crescenzio  was  seized  with  such  faintness  that  he  had  to  sit 
down  on  a  step,  and  stay  there  confused,  neither  seeing  nor 
hearing  in  that  moral  numbness  that  comes  on  after  great 
excitement.  How  long  did  he  stay  there  ?  In  the  end,  it 
was  the  step  of  someone  going  up  and  brushing  past  him 
that  roused  him,  and  with  that  start  all  his  frightful  pain 
came  back  unbearably.  He  rushed  downstairs  helter- 
skelter,  and  ran  through  the  streets  like  one  in  a  dream, 
urged  on  as  if  someone  with  a  straight,  unbending  weapon 
were  pushing  him  with  the  point.  He  got  to  Guantai 
Street,  to  the  little  inn,  Villa  Borghese,  a  resort  of  country 
people,  where  for  four  months  past  Trifari  had  lived  with 
his  father  and  mother,  who  had  left  their  village  at  his 
bidding.  The  two  humble  peasants  had  managed,  from 
youth  to  old  age,  to  put  some  pence  together  and  buy  some 
bits  of  land  by  working  eighteen  hours  a  day  and  eating 
stale  black  bread,  being  content  with  beet  soup  cooked  in 
water,  with  no  salt,  and  sleeping  all  in  one  large  room,  with 
only  a  bed  and  a  chest  in  it,  upon  a  straw  pallet ;  and  this 
they  bore  for  the  sake  of  making  their  son  a  doctor,  handing 
on  to  him  all  their  peasant's  vanity,  making  him  have  an 
unbounded  longing  to  be  a  gentleman,  a  great  man,  superior 
to  everyone  in  the  country-side,  so  giving  him,  unknowingly, 
that  rage  for  gambling  that,  according  to  him,  was  to  make 
him  grow  rich  suddenly,  very  rich,  so  as  to  crush  everyone 
with  his  power  and  luxury. 


DON  CRESCENZI&S  TRTALS  335 

But  in  a  few  years  his  whole  professional  career  was 
ended,  for  he  scorned  it  and  gave  it  up ;  he  had  begun  to  lead 
a  life  of  shameless  indebtedness,  expedients,  and  dodges. 
He  had  begun  by  deceiving  his  parents,  and  had  ended  by 
weaving  for  himself  nets  of  intrigues  and  embarrassments. 
His  father  and  mother  gloomily,  in  the  silence  of  their 
peasant  souls  that  know  of  no  outlet,  had  sold  off  every- 
thing gradually,  going  on  sacrificing  themselves  for  this  son 
that  was  their  idol,  whom  they  adored  because  he  was 
made  of  better  clay  than  themselves.  They  were  at  last  so 
reduced,  so  chastened  in  their  pride,  they  waited  in  their 
old  house  for  their  son  to  send  them  ten  or  twenty  francs 
now  and  then  for  food.  And  he  did  it ;  bound  to  his  old 
folk  by  a  fierce  love  made  up  of  filial  instinct  and  gratitude, 
he  shivered  with  shame  and  grief  every  time  they  told  him, 
resignedly,  that  in  spite  of  being  well  on  in  years  they  would 
have  to  go  back  to  work  in  the  fields  to  earn  their  daily 
bread,  so  as  not  to  be  a  burden  upon  him.  But  these  helps 
had  got  to  be  less  frequent ;  the  rage  for  gambling  blinded 
him  so  he  could  not  even  take  ten  francs  off  his  stakes  to 
send  to  the  unlucky  peasants.  The  finishing  stroke  was 
when  he  wrote  imperiously,  ordering  them  to  sell  the  last 
house  they  had  left,  the  old  home  with  its  sparse  furniture 
and  kitchen  utensils,  to  bring  the  money  and  come  and 
live  in  Naples  with  him  ;  they  would  spend  less  there,  and 
be  more  comfortable. 

It  was  a  dreadful  blow,  for  these  unhappy  folk  held  so 
to  the  habit,  now  become  a  passion,  of  living  in  their  own 
house  and  village,  and  the  very  word  Naples  frightened 
them.  Still,  saying  not  a  word  of  their  sufferings,  they  kept 
up  their  pride,  told  the  villagers  they  were  going  to  live  as 
gentlefolk  with  their  gentleman  son  at  Naples,  and  had  obeyed. 
They  had  haggled  for  a  long  time  over  the  price  of  the  old 
house  and  those  few  bits  of  old  furniture  they  got  at  the 
time  of  their  marriage  ;  but  at  last,  hoarding  up  the  few 
hundred  francs  they  had  got  for  them  carefully  in  a  linen 
bag,  and  travelling  third  class,  they  got  to  Naples, 
frightened,  not  sad,  but  buried  in  that  dumbness  that  is 
the  only  sign  of  a  peasant's  ill-humour. 

They  had  lived  four  months  at  that  inn,  in  two  dark 
rooms ;  for  they  were  on  the  first-floor  with  their  son,  who 
always  came  in  at  a  very  late  hour,  sometimes  when  they 
were  getting  up.  They  had  no  occupation,  and  never  spoke 


336  THE  LAND  OF  COCK  A  YNE 

to  each  other ;  staying  up  in  their  own  room,  they  looked 
with  melancholy,  surprised  eyes  on  all  the  extraordinary 
Naples  people  that  moved  about  in  that  narrow,  populous 
road,  Guantai  Nuova.  They  stayed  hours  and  hours,  wrapt 
up  in  gazing  on  a  sight  that  stupefied  them  ;  but  they  were 
incapable,  however,  of  making  any  complaint,  though  they 
were  suspicious  of  everything,  of  the  spring  bed,  of  the  bad, 
greenish  glass  of  the  mirror,  of  the  miserable  dinners  served 
in  their  own  rooms.  As  it  was  a  thing  they  were  not  ac- 
customed to,  they  thought  they  were  living  in  unheard-of 
luxury.  They  disliked  the  servants,  who  scoffed  at  the  two 
peasants,  and  the  washerwoman,  who  brought  back  their 
coarse  shifts  all  in  holes,  and  loaded  them  with  abuse  in  the 
true  Naples  style  if  they  made  any  remarks. 

Sometimes,  getting  over  their  instinctive  shyness  about 
speaking,  they  told  their  son  to  take  them  away  from  the 
inn  and  hire  a  small  house,  where  his  mother  would  cook 
and  do  the  housework ;  but  he  pointed  out  to  them  that 
would  require  too  much  money,  and  they  would  do  it  later, 
when  he  had  got  the  fine  fortune  he  was  expecting  from  day 
to  day. 

In  the  meanwhile,  their  fortune  grew  smaller,  and  every 
time  they  loosened  the  linen  purse  at  the  end  of  the  week, 
their  hearts  gave  a  twinge.  Often,  when  they  pulled  out 
the  money,  they  saw  their  son's  eyes  brighten  up,  as  if  an 
irresistible  love-longing  filled  them ;  but  he  never  asked 
them  for  it — one  could  see  he  put  a  check  on  himself  not  to 
ask.  But  each  day  he  became  gloomier,  wilder  ;  he  no 
longer  ate  with  his  parents,  and  spent  his  nights  outside,  not 
coming  back  to  the  inn,  so  that  even  into  these  peasants'  dull 
minds  had  come  the  idea  of  some  danger  threatening. 

The  mother  told  her  beads  for  hours,  that  the  Lord  would 
have  pity  on  their  old  age  ;  whilst  the  father,  being  sharper, 
and  more  experienced,  thought  that  perhaps  some  bad 
woman  was  making  his  son  unhappy.  But  they  said  nothing 
to  him ;  even  the  luxury  they  lived  in,  as  they  thought, 
although  they  paid  for  it  themselves,  seemed  to  them  a 
condescension  on  their  son's  part,  a  favour  he  did  his  parents. 
Like  him,  without  understanding  or  knowing  why,  they 
began  to  hope  for  this  fortune  that  was  to  turn  up,  some 
day  or  another,  to  make  them  gentlefolk.  The  old  peasant- 
woman's  purple  lips  were  constantly  moving,  saying  prayers, 
in  the  small,  mean,  dark  room  of  the  Guantai  Street  hotel, 


DON  CRESCENZiaS  TRIALS  337 

whilst  the  old  man  went  out  every  day,  going  always 
the  same  road,  that  is  to  say,  into  Municipio  Square,  and 
from  there  to  the  Molo,  to  gaze  at  the  blackish  sea,  the 
ships  in  the  mercantile  port,  and  the  men-of-war  in  the 
military  one  ;  he  was  fascinated  and  struck  only  with  that 
in  all  the  great  town,  going  nowhere  else,  knowing  nothing 
of  the  rest  of  Naples,  being  afraid  of  the  noise  of  carriages, 
and  dreading  thieves  perhaps.  He  retraced  his  steps  slowly, 
looking  round  him  suspiciously. 

They  never  went  out  with  their  son — never,  as  they  were 
just  peasants  and  so  dressed.  They  always  refused  when 
he  feebly  invited  them  to  go  out  with  him,  guessing,  in  spite 
of  their  dulness,  that  it  would  not  please  him  to  show  himself 
with  them.  He  was  so  handsome,  such  a  gentleman,  in  his 
great-coat  and  tall  hat.  But  one  evening  he  came  in  more 
excited  than  usual.  Quickly,  in  rather  a  hard  voice,  such 
as  he  had  never  used  to  them,  Dr.  Trifari  told  his  parents 
that  his  business,  his  big  affair,  his  plan  for  getting  rich,  in 
short,  required  money  to  be  laid  out,  so  they  should  hand 
him  over  these  last  few  hundred  francs  they  were  keeping  in 
reserve  ;  do  him  this  last  great  sacrifice,  and  he  would  give  it 
all  back  a  hundredfold.  He  spoke  quickly,  with  his  eyes 
down,  as  if  he  did  not  wish  to  intercept  the  dreadful,  chilled, 
despairing  look  the  two  peasants  exchanged,  feeling  struck 
to  the  heart,  frozen.  The  father  and  mother  held  their 
tongues,  looking  on  the  ground ;  then  he,  speaking  quicker, 
in  an  anxious  tone,  trying  to  soften  his  harsh  voice,  implored 
and  implored,  begging  them,  if  they  loved  him,  to  give  him 
the  money  if  they  did  not  want  to  see  his  death.  They, 
without  making  any  remark,  glanced  assent  at  each  other, 
and  with  senile,  quivering  hands  the  father  undid  the  linen 
bag  and  took  out  the  money,  counting  it  slowly  and  care- 
fully, starting  again  at  each  hundred  francs,  following  the 
money  with  a  troubled  eye  and  a  convulsive  movement  of 
the  lower  lip. 

There  were  four  hundred  and  twenty  francs,  the  whole 
fortune  of  the  three.  Pale  at  first,  the  doctor  got  very  red, 
his  eyes  filled  with  tears,  and  before  either  of  them  could 
stop  him,  he  bent  down  and  kissed  his  father's  and  mother's  old 
brown,  rugged,  horny  hands  that  had  worked  so  hard.  Not 
another  word  had  been  said  between  them,  and  he  was  gone. 
He  did  not  come  back  to  the  hotel  in  the  evening  ;  but  now 
they  did  not  take  any  notice  of  his  being  absent.  Still,  the 

22 


338  THE  LAND  OF  COCKAYNE 

next  day  he  did  not  come  back  to  dinner  ;  it  was  the  first 
time  it  had  happened.  They  waited  till  evening,  but  he  did 
not  come.  The  peasant  woman  told  her  beads,  always  be- 
ginning again  ;  they  ended  by  dining  off  a  bit  of  bread  and 
two  oranges  they  had  in  their  room. 

Dr.  Trifari  did  not  come  back  the  second  night  either, 
and  it  was  about  noon  of  the  second  day  that  a  letter,  with 
a  halfpenny  stamp,  by  the  local  post,  came,  addressed  to 
Signer  Giovanni  Trifari,  Villa  Borghese.  Ah  !  they  were 
peasants,  with  dull  intellects  and  simple  hearts  ;  they  never 
imagined  things,  or  even  thought  much  ;  they  were  curt, 
silent  people.  But  when  that  letter  was  brought  to  them, 
and  they  recognised  their  son's  well-known  and  loved 
writing,  they  both  began  to  tremble,  as  if  a  sudden,  over- 
powering palsy  had  come  on.  Twice  or  thrice,  his  rough 
spectacles  shaking  on  his  nose,  with  the  slowness  of  a  man 
not  knowing  how  to  read  well,  and  having  to  keep  back  his 
tears,  the  old  peasant  read  over  his  son's  letter,  in  which, 
just  before  starting  for  America,  he  said  good-bye  to  them 
filially  and  tenderly ;  and,  feeling  the  gentle,  terrible  letter 
getting  well  printed  on  her  mind,  the  old  woman  kissed  her 
beads  and  gave  a  low  groan.  Twice  an  inn  servant  came 
in,  with  the  sceptical  look  of  one  accustomed  to  all  the 
chances  and  changes  of  life.  He  asked  them  if  they  wanted 
anything  to  eat ;  but  they,  blind,  deaf,  and  forgetful,  did  not 
even  answer.  When,  towards  six  o'clock,  Don  Crescenzio 
came  in,  after  knocking  fruitlessly,  he  found  them,  almost  in 
the  dark,  seated  near  the  balcony  in  perfect  silence. 

'  Is  the  doctor  here  ?' 

Neither  of  the  two  answered,  as  if  death's  stupor  had 
overcome  them. 

'  I  wished  to  know  if  Dr.  Trifari  was  here.' 

'  No,  sir,  he  is  not,'  the  old  father  said. 

'  Has  he  gone  out  ?' 

'  Yes,  he  is  out.' 

'  How  long  has  he  been  absent  ?' 

'  He  has  been  away  a  long  time,'  the  old  peasant  muttered, 
and  a  groan  from  his  wife  echoed  him. 

'  When  is  he  coming  back  ?'  shouted  Don  Crescenzio, 
very  agitated,  taking  an  angry  fit. 

'  I  can't  tell  you;  we  don't  know,'  the  old  man  said, 
shaking  his  head. 

'  You  are  his  father  ;  you  must  know.' 


DON  CRESCENZWS  TRIALS  339 

'  He  did  not  tell  me.' 

'  But  where  is  he  gone  ?     Where  is  that  scoundrel  gone  ?' 

'  To  America — to  Buenos  Ayres.' 

'  Good  Lord !'  Don  Crescenzio  just  managed  to  bring  out, 
falling  full  weight  on  a  chair. 

They  said  no  more.  The  mother  devoutly  clutched  her 
rosary.  But  both  Trifari's  parents  seemed  so  tired  that 
Don  Crescenzio  felt  desperate,  finding  everywhere  different 
forms  of  misfortunes,  and  greater  ones  than  his  own.  Still, 
he  clutched  at  a  straw  ;  above  everything,  he  wished  to 
know  all  about  it,  with  that  bitter  enjoyment  a  man  feels  in 
tasting  the  full  agony  of  his  misfortune.  He,  too,  had  fled, 
then ;  he,  too,  had  escaped  him  ;  that  money,  too,  was  lost 
— lost  for  ever. 

'  But  who  gave  him  the  money  to  get  away  ?'  he  cried  out 
in  an  exasperated  tone. 

'  Are  you  really  friendly  to  him  ?' 

'  Yes,  yes,  I  am.' 

'  Truly  are  you?' 

'  Yes,  I  tell  you.' 

'  Here  is  his  letter.     Take  it ;  you  will  find  out  from  it.' 

Then  by  the  faint  light  of  fading  day  he  read  the  unhappy 
man's  long  letter.  Eaten  up  by  debts  and  his  ruling  passion, 
not  knowing  where  to  lay  his  head,  he  wrote  to  his  parents, 
taking  leave  of  them  on  going  to  make  his  fortune  in 
America.  Of  the  four  hundred  francs  it  had  taken  about 
three  hundred  and  fifty  to  pay  for  a  third-class  ticket  on  a 
steamer,  counting  in  a  few  francs  for  his  keep  the  first  two 
or  three  days  in  Buenos  Ayres.  He  owned  up  to  every- 
thing. He  was  the  cause  of  his  own  ruin  and  of  his  family's. 
He  cursed  gambling,  fate,  and  himself,  swearing  at  bad  luck 
and  his  own  bad  conscience.  He  sent  back  a  few  francs  to 
the  two  poor  old  folks,  begging  them  to  go  back  to  their 
village,  to  get  on  as  well  as  they  could,  until  he  was  able  to 
send  them  something  from  Buenos  Ayres.  He  told  them 
to  go  home,  and  he  would  not  forget  them,  and  the  money 
would  just  serve  for  two  third-class  fares  to  their  village  ; 
nothing  would  be  left  over  to  buy  food  even.  He  begged 
them  on  his  knees  to  forgive  him,  not  to  curse  him.  He 
had  not  had  the  courage  to  kill  himself,  for  their  sakes ; 
still,  he  begged  them  to  forgive  them.  Though  he  was 
leaving  them  like  this,  he  implored  them  not  to  give  him  a 
curse  as  a  parting  provision  on  this  wretched  journey  of  his. 

22 — 2 


340  THE  LAND  OF  COCK  A  YNE 

He  was  starting  with  no  luggage  or  money,  and  would  be 
cast  into  the  ship's  common  sleeping-place.  The  letter  was 
full  of  tenderness  and  rage  :  abuse  of  the  rich,  of  gentlemen 
and  Government,  came  alternately  with  prayers  for  forgive- 
ness and  humble  excuses. 

Don  Crescenzio  read  twice  over  that  agonized  letter 
written  by  a  man  enraged  at  himself  and  mankind,  feeling 
himself  wounded  in  the  only  tender  feeling  of  his  life.  He 
folded  it  absent-mindedly,  and  looked  at  the  two  old  people. 
It  seemed  to  him  that  they  were  centenarians,  falling  to 
pieces  from  decrepitude  and  hard  work,  bent  by  age  and 
sorrow. 

4  What  are  you  going  to  do  now  ?'  he  asked  in  a  whisper, 
after  a  short  time. 

'  We  are  going  to  our  village,'  the  old  man  muttered. 
*  To-morrow  we  will  go  by  the  first  train.' 

'  Yes,  yes,  we  are  going  back,'  the  poor  old  woman 
groaned,  without  looking  up. 

'  What  are  you  to  do  there  ?'  he  rejoined,  wishing  to  find 
out  the  full  extent  of  all  that  misfortune. 

'  We  are  to  work  by  the  day  in  the  fields,'  said  the  old 
man  simply. 

He  examined  the  two,  so  old,  tired,  and  bent,  now  making 
ready  to  begin  life  again  so  as  to  get  bread,  to  dig  the 
ground  with  shaking  arms,  bending  their  brown  faces  and 
sparse  white  hair,  under  the  summer  sun.  Struck  to  the 
heart  by  this  last  blow,  feeling  the  chorus  of  misfortune 
growing  around  him,  he  did  not  open  his  mouth  about  the 
money  he  was  to  have  got  from  Trifari ;  indeed,  feverishly, 
he  felt  such  pity  for  the  two  old  folk  that  he  said  to  them  : 

'  Can  I  do  anything  for  you  ?' 

'  No,  no,  thank  you,'  the  two  said,  with  the  despairing 
gestures  of  those  who  expect  no  more  help. 

'  Keep  up  your  courage,  then.' 

'  Yes,  yes,  thank  you,'  they  muttered  again. 
He  left  them  without  saying  more.  It  was  night  now 
when  he  went  down  into  the  street.  For  a  moment,  feeling 
confused  and  dismayed,  he  thought,  Where  was  he  to  go  ? 
Anew,  set  along  by  quite  a  mechanical  goad,  he  took 
courage,  and,  crossing  Toledo  Street,  went  up  to  the  high 
part  by  San  Michele  Church,  where  the  Rossi  Palace  stood 
out  dark  and  lofty.  In  that  mansion  lived  the  last  of  those 
largely  indebted  to  him,  the  most  desperate  of  all.  So  as 


DON  CRESCENZiaS  TRIALS  341 

not  to  have  a  bad  omen  at  the  beginning  of  the  day,  he  had 
kept  them  to  the  last.  But  he  had  found  money  nowhere  ; 
and  now,  with  the  natural  rebound  of  the  unhappy  who 
fight  against  their  misfortunes  by  that  strength  of  hope 
which  never  dies,  now  he  began  again  to  believe  that 
Cesare  Fragala  and  the  Marquis  di  Formosa  would  give 
him  the  money  in  some  way — that  it  might  rain  down  from 
heaven. 

When  he  went  into  Cesare  Fragala' s  flat,  led  across  an 
empty  dark  room  by  little  Agnesina,  who  came  to  open  the 
door,  carrying  a  half-burnt  candle,  he  had  at  once  regretted 
he  had  come.  Husband,  wife  and  daughter  were  seated 
at  a  small  table,  with  a  cloth  too  small  for  it,  taking  their 
supper  silently,  looking  at  every  little  bit  of  fried  liver  they 
put  in  their  mouths  for  fear  of  leaving  too  little  for  the 
others.  The  child  especially,  having  a  healthy  youthful 
appetite,  measured  her  mouthfuls  of  bread  so  as  not  to  eat 
too  much  of  it.  Cesare  Fragala  sat  very  solemnly,  all  traces 
of  a  smile  having  gone  from  his  face,  and  looked  at  the 
tablecloth  with  his  brows  knit.  His  wife,  the  good  Luisella, 
with  her  big  black  eyes,  on  whose  brow  the  happy  mother's 
diamond  star  had  shone,  had  now  a  humble,  subdued  look 
in  a  plain  stuff  gown.  Quietly  with  her  calm  eyes  the 
child  looked  serenely,  with  a  martyr's  patience,  at  the  visitor, 
as  if  she  understood  and  expected  the  request  he  was  about 
to  make.  Before  that  gentle,  thoughtful  child's  eye  Don 
Crescenzio  felt  his  tongue  tied,  so  it  was  with  an  effort  he 
stammered  out : 

'  Cesare,  I  am  come  about  that  business.' 

A  flame  of  fire  burned  in  Cesare's  cheeks.  The  wife  gave 
up  eating,  and  the  child  cast  down  her  eyelids  as  if  the  blow 
were  coming  on  her  own  head. 

'  It  is  difficult  for  me  to  do  anything  for  you,  Crescenzio  ; 
you  don't  know  all  our  embarrassments,'  Cesare  said  faintly. 

'  I  do  know — I  know,'  said  the  other,  hardly  able  to  keep 
down  his  feelings  ;  '  but  I  am  in  a  worse  state  than  you  are.' 

'  I  don't  believe  you  can  be,'  muttered  the  merchant,  who 
had  gone  through  the  bankruptcy  court  a  few  days  before, 
in  a  dreary  tone  ;  '  I  don't  think  you  can  be.' 

'  Your  honour  is  safe,  Cesare,  but  I  am  not  to  save  mine. 
What  can  I  say  ?  I  add  nothing  more.' 

And,  not  able  to  bear  it  any  longer,  feeling  Agnesina's 
sympathetic  eyes  on  him,  he  began  to  weep.  A  little  even- 


342  THE  LAND  OF  COCKA  YNE 

ing  breeze  coming  from  a  half- shut  balcony  made  the  lamp 
quiver.  It  was  a  fantastically  wretched  group,  the  husband, 
wife,  and  daughter  clinging  to  each  other,  all  most  unhappy, 
looking  at  that  wretched  man  sobbing. 

'  Could  we  not  give  him  something,  Luisella  ?'  Cesare 
timidly  whispered  in  his  wife's  ear,  while  the  other  mourned 
vaguely. 

'  How  much  do  you  owe  him  ?'  said  Luisa  thoughtfully. 

'  Five  hundred  francs  ...  it  was  more.  I  paid  part 
of  it.' 

'  Was  it  a  gambling  debt  ?'  she  asked  coldly. 

'  Yes,  it  was.' 

'  What  was  he  saying  about  honour  ?' 

'  He  gave  us  credit.  If  he  is  not  paid,  Government  will 
have  him  put  in  prison.' 

'  Has  he  children  ?' 

'  Yes,  he  has.' 

She  went  out  of  the  room.  The  two  men  looked  sadly  at 
each  other,  and  the  girl  gazed  at  them  both  with  her  kindly, 
encouraging  eyes.  After  a  little  Luisa  came  back  looking 
rather  pale. 

'  This  is  our  last  hundred-franc  note,'  she  said,  in  her 
pleasant  voice.  '  There  is  only  a  little  small  change  left  for 
ourselves  ;  but  the  Lord  will  provide.' 

'  God  will  provide,'  the  child  repeated,  taking  the  hundred- 
franc  note  from  her  mother's  hands  and  giving  it  to  Don 
Crescenzio. 

Ah !  at  that  moment,  before  these  poor  people,  who 
counted  their  mouthfuls  of  bread,  who  stinted  themselves  of 
the  last  remnant  of  their  money  to  help  him ;  at  that  moment, 
in  the  midst  of  sad,  gentle  expressions  on  the  faces  of  ruined 
folk,  who  still  kept  faith  and  compassion,  he  felt  his  heart 
break  ;  he  shook  as  if  he  was  going  to  faint.  For  a  minute 
he  thought  of  not  taking  the  money  ;  but  it  seemed  to  him 
charmed,  made  sacred  by  passing  through  that  good  woman's 
hands  and  the  brave  little  girl's.  He  only  said  quiveringly : 

'  Forgive  me,  forgive  me  for  taking  it.' 

'  It  is  nothing,'  Cesare  Fragala  said  at  once,  with  his  easy 
good-nature. 

'  You  are  so  kind,  so  kind,'  Crescenzio  muttered,  as  he 
took  leave,  looking  humbly  at  the  two — the  woman  and  the 
child — who  bore  misfortune  so  bravely. 
Cesare  went  out  of  the  room  with  him. 


DON  CRESCENZiaS  TRIALS  343 

'  I  am  sorry  it  is  so  little,'  he  said  ;  'it  won't  do  you  any 
good.' 

'  It  is  worth  a  hundred  thousand,  as  far  as  the  heart  is 
concerned !'  the  lottery-keeper  exclaimed  sadly.  '  But  I 
have  to  give  four  thousand  six  hundred  francs  to  Govern- 
ment, and  this  is  all  I  have  got.' 

'  Have  the  others  given  you  nothing  ?' 
'  Nothing.     1  found  nothing  but  misfortunes  and  bad  luck 
everywhere.     I  am  going  up  to  the  Marquis  di  Formosa's 
now.' 

'  Don't  go  there,'  said  Fragala,  shaking  his  head  ;  '  it  is 
no  use.' 

'  I  will  try.' 

'  Don't  try  for  it.  They  are  worse  off  than  we  are.  They 
dread  every  day  they  will  lose  Lady  Bianca  Maria.  Her 
father  has  lost  his  senses.' 

'  Who  knows  ?     I  might  get  it.' 

'  Listen  to  me  :  don't  go.  You  might  come  in  for  some 
ugly  scene.' 

'  Some  ugly  scene  !     What  do  you  mean  ?' 
'  Yes,   the   Marchesina  gets   convulsions  ;    she  cries  out 
frightfully  in  them.     Every  time  we  hear  her  we  leave  the 
house.     She  cries  out  always,   "Mother!    Mother!"     It  is 
agonizing.' 
'  Is  she  mad  ?' 

'  No,  she  is  not.  She  calls  for  help  in  her  fits.  They  say 
that  she  sees.  .  .  .  Don't  go  there  ;  it  is  no  use.  Do  what 
is  right.' 

'  Very  well.     Thank  you,'  said  the  other. 
They  embraced,  as  sad  and  excited  as  if  they  were  never 
to  see  each  other  again. 

Now,  when  Don  Crescenzio  got  to  the  Rossi  Palazzo 
entrance,  after  hurriedly  going  downstairs  almost  as  if  he 
feared  to  hear  the  Lady  Bianca  Maria  Cavalcanti's  dying 
cries  behind  him — when  he  got  out  on  the  street  alone,  amid 
the  people  going  and  coming  from  Toledo  Street  that  soft 
spring  evening,  he  suddenly  thought  it  was  all  over.  The 
hundred  francs  his  weeping  had  dragged  from  the  Fragalas' 
wretchedness  was  shut  up  in  his  otherwise  empty  purse  in 
his  great-coat  pocket.  Just  there  he  felt  something  like  an 
increasing  heat,  for  that  money  was  really  destiny's  last 
word.  He  would  get  no  more  ;  all  was  said.  His  desperate 
resolutions,  his  growing  emotion,  his  day's  struggle,  running, 


344  THE  LAND  OF  COCK  A  YNE 

panting,  speaking,  telling  his  wrongs,  weeping,  and  the  great 
dread  of  ruin  tarrying  with  him,  had  done  nothing  but  drag 
the  last  mouthful  of  bread  from  his  most  innocent  debtor. 
A  hundred  francs — a  mockery  to  the  sum  he  had  to  pay  on 
Wednesday,  without  fail.  A  hundred  francs,  no  more  ;  a 
drop  of  water  in  the  desert.  He  felt  it,  for  he  had  used  up 
a  lot  of  strength  and  excitement,  and  had  only  managed  to 
drag  these  few  francs  from  the  Fragala  family's  honesty ;  so 
he  felt  flabby,  weak,  and  exhausted.  That  was  the  last 
word.  Then  there  was  no  more  money  for  him ;  he  must 
look  on  himself  as  ruined — ruined,  with  no  hope  of  salva- 
tion. A  cloud — perhaps  it  was  tears — swam  before  his  eyes. 
The  flow  of  the  crowd  took  him  to  the  bottom  of  Toledo 
Street ;  he  let  himself  be  carried  along.  He  felt  that  he 
was  the  prey  of  destiny,  with  no  strength  to  resist ;  he  was 
like  a  dry  leaf  turned  over  by  the  whirlwind.  He  could  do 
nothing  more — nothing  ;  all  was  ended.  Some  other  people 
still  owed  him  money.  Baron  Lamarra,  Calandra  the 
magistrate,  and  two  or  three  others  owed  him  small  sums. 
But  he  did  not  want  to  go  to  them  even ;  it  was  all  useless, 
all,  since,  wherever  he  had  gone,  wherever  he  had  taken  his 
despair,  he  had  found  the  marks  of  a  scourge  like  his  own — 
the  gambling  scourge — that  had  sent  them  all  to  wretched- 
ness, shame,  and  death  like  himself. 

He  dared  not  go  back  to  his  home  now,  though  it  was 
getting  late.  He  had  gone  down  by  Santa  Brigida  and 
Molo  Road  to  Marina  Street,  where  he  lived  in  one  of  those 
tall,  narrow  houses  one  reaches  by  gloomy  alleys  from 
Porto,  which  look  on  to  rather  a  dull  sea  between  the 
Custom-house  and  the  Granili,  and  from  Marina  Road, 
where  fishermen's  luggers  and  boats  are  anchored  and  tied 
up.  Among  the  thousands  of  windows  he  gazed  at  the 
lighted-up  one  where  his  wife  was  putting  the  babies  to 
bed.  But  he  dared  not  go  in — no.  Was  it  not  all  ended  ? 
His  wife  would  read  the  sentence,  the  condemnation,  in  his 
face,  and  he  could  not  bear  that.  An  increasing  feebleness 
took  hold  of  him ;  he  felt  as  if  his  arms  and  legs  were 
broken,  and  in  the  darkness  and  silence — where  only  the 
cabs  taking  travellers  to  the  evening  trains,  only  the  trams 
going  to  the  Vesuvian  districts,  gave  a  touch  of  life  to  the 
dark,  broad  Marina  Road — not  able  to  stand,  he  sat  down 
on  one  of  the  seats  in  the  long,  narrow  Villa  del  Popolo,  the 
poor  folk's  garden  that  goes  along  the  seashore.  From 


DON  CRESCENZI&S  TRIALS  345 

there  he  still  saw,  though  further  off  in  the  distance,  like  a 
star,  the  lighted  window  in  his  little  home.  How  could 
he  go  in  to  bring  tears  and  despair  into  that  peaceful, 
happy  little  atmosphere  !  That  innocent  infant  and  the 
other  about  to  come  into  the  world,  the  mother  so  proud 
of  her  husband,  of  her  little  boy :  must  he — he — make 
them  quiver  with  grief  and  shame  that  evening  ?  This 
would  be  unbearable  for  him.  How  tremendous  a  punish- 
ment it  was,  falling  on  everyone's  head,  as  if  all  were 
accursed,  and  destroying  health,  honour,  fortune,  every- 
thing ! 

In  a  dream,  going  on  from  one  thing  to  another,  he  knit 
together  all  the  threads  of  that  chastisement  that  started 
from  himself  and  returned  to  him,  going  on  from  his  despair 
to  that  of  others,  while  he  still  gazed  at  the  slight  beacon 
where  his  family  were  waiting  for  him.  He  saw  again 
Ninetto  Costa's  pale,  worn  face,  setting  out  for  a  much 
longer  journey  certainly  than  to  Rome,  leaving  his  mother 
a  bankrupt  suicide's  name  ;  he  saw  Marzano  the  advocate 
struck  with  apoplexy,  his  lips  bloated,  amid  the  frightful 
wretchedness  that  left  no  money  to  buy  more  ice,  whilst  a 
dishonouring  accusation  had  been  made  against  him, 
shaming  his  gray  hairs  ;  then  Professor  Colaneri,  chased 
away  from  the  school,  accused  of  having  sold  his  conscience 
as  a  teacher,  and,  after  having  cast  off  the  clerical  robe,  now 
obliged  to  give  up  the  religion  he  was  born  in,  of  which  he 
had  been  a  priest ;  he  saw  Dr.  Trifari  sailing  in  an  emigrant 
ship,  without  a  farthing,  short  of  everything,  while  his  old 
parents  had  to  go  back  to  dig  the  hard  earth  so  as  to  earn 
their  living  ;  and  Cesare  Fragala's  resigned  surrender,  which 
ended  the  name  of  the  old  firm,  and  left  him  to  confront  a 
future  of  wretchedness.  Finally,  above  everything,  the  ill- 
ness Lady  Bianca  Maria  Cavalcanti  was  dying  of,  while  her 
father  had  not  a  bit  of  bread  to  put  in  his  mouth.  All,  all 
were  being  punished,  great  and  small,  nobles  and  common 
folk,  innocent  and  guilty,  and  he  with  them — he  and  his 
family,  struck  in  all  he  held  dearest — his  means,  home, 
happiness,  and  honour — a  band  of  unfortunates,  where  the 
innocent  were  the  ones  that  had  to  weep  most,  where  little 
infants,  girls,  and  women  paid  for  grown  men's  mistakes, 
and  old  people,  too — a  band  of  wretched  ones — to  whom, 
in  his  mind,  he  added  others  that  he  knew  and  remembered. 
Baron  Lamarra,  with  the  accusation  of  forgery  held  over 


346  THE  LAND  OF  COCK  A  YNE 

him  by  his  wife,  had  gone  back  to  work  as  a  contractor,  in 
the  sun  on  the  streets,  among  buildings  in  course  of  con- 
struction ;  and  Don  Domenico  Mayer,  the  hypochondriacal 
official,  who  one  day  in  despair,  not  being  able  to  move  for 
debt,  had  thrown  himself  from  a  fourth-floor  window,  dying 
at  once ;    and  Calandra  the   magistrate,   who   had   twelve 
children,  was  so  badly  reported  on  that  every  six  months  he 
ran  the  chance  of  being  put  on  the  shelf;  and  Gaetano  the 
glover,  who  had  killed  his  wife  Annarella  with  a  kick  on  the 
stomach  when  she  was  two  months  gone  with  child :  but  no 
one  knew  anything  about  it  except  his  children,  who  hated 
their  father,  as  every  Friday  he  promised  to  kill  them  also, 
if  they  did  not  give  him  money.     All — all  of  them  were  at 
death's  door,  yet  living  on,  amidst  the  pinching  of  need  and 
the  canker  of  shame.     And  he,  finally,  who  had  his  family 
there  in  the  little  house  waiting,  while  he  had  not  the  courage 
to  go  back,  feeling  that  the  first  announcement  of  their  mis- 
fortune would  burn  his  lips.     It  was  all  one  chastisement, 
one  frightful  punishment — that  is  to  say,  the  hand  of  the 
Lord  bearing  heavily  on  the  wicked,  the  guilty,  and  striking 
them  to  the  seventh  generation  ;  or,  rather,  the  same  sin, 
the  same  guilt,  that  infamous,  cursed  gambling,  had  got  to 
be  an  instrument  of  chastisement  against  those  who  had 
made  an  idol  of  it ;  for  the  gambling  passion,  like  all  others 
that  are  outside  of  life  and  real  things,  had  the  germ,  the 
seed  of  bitter  repentance,   in   the  vice   itself.     They  were 
struck  where  they  had  sinned,  or,  rather,  by  the  sin  itself. 
It  was  just  one  long  burst  of  weeping  from  all  eyes,  even  the 
purest  ones,  a  burst  of  sobs  from  the  cleanest  lips ;  a  crowd 
of  poor,  honest,  innocent  creatures  struggling  amidst  hunger 
and  death,  paying  for  others'  mistakes,  giving  the  guilty  the 
remorseful  thought  that  they  had  cast  the  people  they  loved 
best  into  this  great  abyss.     Not  one  safe,  not  one,  of  those 
who  had  given  up  their  life  to  gambling,  to  infamous,  wicked 
gambling,  that  eater-up  of  blood  and  money.     Not  even  he 
or  his  family  were  safe ;  he,  too,  was  broken ;  his  children 
were  to  be  reduced  to  holding  out  their  hands.     The  punish- 
ment was  too  great ;  it  was  unbearable.     What  had  he  done 
to  have  to  go  to  prison  like  an  evil-doer,  that  his  wife  should 
be  ashamed  of  belonging  to  him,  and  his  children  would 
never  mention  his  name  ?     What  had  he  done  to  have  to 
stay  there  in  the  street  like  a  beggar,  who  dare  not  go  back 
to  his  den,  having  got  no  alms  from  hard-hearted  men  ? 


DON  CRESCENZIO'S  TRIALS  347 

Ah  !  it  was  too  much,  too  much  !     What  fault  had  he  com- 
mitted ? 

A  couple  of  policemen  went  through  Marina  Street,  and 
cast  searching  glances  into  the  darkness  of  the  footpaths  in 
Villa  del  Popolo  ;  but  the  shadows  were  deep,  and  the  men 
did  not  notice  Don  Crescenzio  lying  at  full  length  on  a  seat. 
But  he,  by  a  quick  change  of  scene,  saw  before  him  his 
lottery  shop  in  Nunzio  Lane,  on  glowing  Friday  evenings 
and  anxious  Saturday  mornings,  when  the  gamblers  crowded 
to  the  three  wickets  in  his  shop,  their  eyes  lighted  up  by 
hope,  their  hands  quivering  with  emotion.  He  saw  again 
the  placards  in  blue  and  red  letters  that  incited  gamblers  to 
bring  more  money  to  the  lottery.  He  saw  again  the  number 
of  advertisements  of  Cabalists'  newspapers  and  the  mottoes  : 
'  So  you  will  see  me ' ;  'It  will  be  your  fortune ' ;  '  The 
people's  treasure  ' ;  '  The  infallible  ' ;  '  The  secret  unveiled  '; 
'  The  wheel  of  fortune.'  He  remembered  the  medium's 
frequent  visits  and  his  fatal  intimacy  with  all  the  other 
Cabalists,  spiritual  brothers,  and  mathematicians,  who 
excited  the  gamblers  with  their  strange  jargon  and  im- 
postures. He  saw  it  again  at  Christmas  and  Easter  weeks, 
when  the  gambling  became  wild,  fierce  ;  for  people  have 
such  a  longing  to  get  into  the  long-dreamt-of  Land  of 
Cockayne.  And  he  always  saw  himself  pleased  with  their 
illusions  that  ended  in  a  sad  disappointment ;  pleased  that 
that  mirage  should  blind  the  weak,  the  foolish,  the  sick,  the 
poor,  the  sanguine — all  those  who  live  for  the  Land  of 
Cockayne  ;  pleased  that  everyone  should  get  the  infection, 
that  no  one  was  safe ;  quite  delighted  when,  at  great 
festivals,  the  rage  increased  and  the  stakes  augmented  his 
percentage.  He  saw  it  all  clearly  :  his  own  figure  bending 
to  write  the  cursed  ciphers  and  the  lying  promises  in  the 
ledger,  the  gamblers'  crimson  or  pale  faces  distorted  by 
passion.  He  bowed  his  head,  crushed,  feeling  he  had 
deserved  the  punishment,  he  himself,  his  family,  on  to  the 
seventh  generation.  The  lottery  was  a  disgrace  that  led  to 
illness,  wretchedness,  prison — every  sort  of  dishonour  and 
death.  And  he  had  kept  a  shop  for  the  infamous  thing ! 


CHAPTER  XX 

BIANCA    MARIA    CAVALCANTI 

FOR  three  days  in  the  Marquis  di  Formosa's  house  a  deep 
silence  had  reigned.  The  doors,  oiled  in  their  hinges  and 
locks,  shut  and  opened  with  no  noise.  The  two  old  servants, 
Giovanni  and  Margherita,  walked  on  tiptoe,  not  saying  a 
word,  like  shadows  gliding  over  the  floor — or,  rather,  they 
made  no  movement.  Giovanni,  seated  on  the  single  straw 
chair  that  furnished  the  lobby,  Margherita  seated  at  the 
sick  girl's  bedside,  gazing  at  the  pale  face  sunk  in  heavy 
stupor  in  the  sickly  slumber  of  high  fever,  both  kept  quite 
still.  The  doctor,  some  sort  of  a  medical  man,  called  in 
from  Berriolas',  the  neighbouring  druggists,  said  that  above 
everything  any  noise  would  have  a  bad  effect  on  the  patient's 
brain,  and  at  once  in  the  house  every  sound,  even  sighs, 
were  hushed.  Not  a  word  was  said  above  the  breath,  for  those 
old  servants  were  accustomed  to  being  silent  and  motionless. 
It  looked  already  as  if  they  had  been  overtaken  by  the  long 
last  rest.  Then  the  doctor  asked  for  the  family  practitioner. 
When  they  mentioned  Dr.  Amati's  name,  he  at  once  pro- 
posed to  send  for  him.  He  needed  him.  The  Marquis  di 
Formosa's  anxious  face  got  icy,  and  the  two  servants  looked 
just  as  sorrowful.*  Then  he  suspected  something,  shook  his 
head,  and  set  to  treating  the  patient  himself,  covering  her 
burning  head  with  ice,  giving  her  quinine  every  two  hours 
to  try  and  bring  down  the  high  fever,  the  raging  typhoid, 
giving  her  strong  nourishment,  but  without  making  any 
improvement,  never  managing  to  overcome  the  state  of  coma 
she  was  in,  except  by  raising  a  queer  delirium,  mingled  with 
spasmodic  nervous  convulsions ;  for  the  blood-poisoning  by 
typhoid  was  complicated  by  serious  nervous  disorders. 

1  What  do  you  say  about  it,  doctor — what  is  your  verdict  ?' 
asked  the  Marquis  di  Formosa  on  the  stair  landing. 

'  If  it  was  only  typhoid  there  might  be  some  hope  ;  but 
the  whole  nervous  system  is  overthrown.  We  run  the  risk 


BIANCA  MARIA   CAVALCANTI  349 

of  meningitis.     I  tell  you  again,  you  must  call  Dr.  Amati 
in  ;  he  knows  the  patient.' 

'  It  is  impossible  to  do  so,'  the  Marquis  answered  sharply. 

'Then  I  do  not  answer  for  the  consequences,'  said  the 
other,  going  off. 

Going  back  into  his  daughter's  room,  the  Marquis  di 
Formosa  stiffened  his  pride  against  the  doctor's  request, 
which  tortured  his  fatherly  heart.  That  man,  who  had 
taken  his  daughter's  heart  from  him,  would  never  enter  his 
house  again  and  bring  his  evil  influence  on  her.  Bianca 
Maria  was  young  and  strong ;  she  would  get  over  the 
illness.  Thus  he  persisted  in  his  haughtiness,  and  went 
back  to  sit  at  his  sick  daughter's  bedside.  He  leant  over 
that  face  that  always  got  more  bloodless,  and  called  to  his 
daughter  just  above  his  breath. 

She  was  lying  sunk  in  that  torpor  of  typhoid,  with  a 
lump  of  ice  on  her  motionless  head,  her  hands  joined  as  if 
in  prayer,  the  usual  attitude  of  typhoid  patients.  Still,  she 
heard  that  breath  of  a  voice.  She  did  not  answer,  she  did 
not  open  her  eyes,  but,  with  a  slight  contraction  of  her 
muscles,  she  drew  her  eyebrows  together  frowningly,  as  if 
annoyed ;  and  her  hand  made  a  constant  motion,  always 
the  same,  obstinate,  discouraging,  to  keep  her  father  at  a 
distance.  He  leant  down  again,  hurt  and  offended,  saying 
in  a  whisper  that  it  was  her  father — her  own  father,  who 
loved  her  so  fondly,  who  wanted  to  make  her  well ;  he  was 
the  only  person  who  really  loved  her. 

But  the  bored  expression  got  stronger  on  the  poor 
invalid's  face — the  patient,  as  the  doctor  called  her — and 
the  slender,  obstinate,  uneasy  hand  went  on  driving  away 
the  Marquis  di  Formosa.  The  old  man  had  difficulty  in 
keeping  down  a  rush  of  anger  that  rose  to  his  brain,  and  he 
went  to  sit  a  little  distance  off,  folding  his  arms  across  his 
breast,  his  head  down,  submitting,  humbling  himself.  Mar- 
gherita  alone  got  an  answer  when  she  asked  Bianca  Maria 
anything — if  she  would  drink  any  of  that  strong  beverage, 
marsala,  beaten  up  egg  and  soup,  that  is  given  to  typhoid 
patients,  or  if  she  wanted  the  ice-bag  changed.  The  girl, 
without  opening  her  eyes,  answered  either  way  by  a  wave  of 
her  slight  hand.  And  the  Marquis  di  Formosa  was  obliged, 
if  he  wished  to  know  anything,  to  watch  the  old  waiting- 
woman's  face.  At  certain  times,  in  despair  at  that  obstinate 
ostracism,  he  went  out  of  Bianca  Maria's  room  and  began 


350  THE  LAND  OF  COCKAYNE 

to  walk  up  and  down  in  the  drawing-room  ;  but  often  his 
excited  footsteps  made  too  much  noise,  and  Margherita's 
worn  face  came  to  the  doorway.  He  stood  still.  She 
made  him  a  sign  to  be  quiet ;  the  noise  did  harm  to  Bianca 
Maria. 

'  Here,  too,  do  I  annoy  her  ?'  he  asked,  quivering. 

And  as  Margherita  agreed,  '  Yes,  it  was  true,'  even  in  the 
distance  he  made  her  suffer,  to  keep  down  a  feeling  of  rage, 
he  took  his  hat  and  went  out  of  the  house.  Then  the  flat 
fell  back  again  into  its  great  stillness ;  Giovanni  slumbered 
sadly  in  the  hall,  whilst  Margherita  leant  over  the  invalid's 
pallid,  burning  face  to  breathe  out  some  gentle  word  to 
her.  Making  an  effort,  the  poor  girl  smiled  for  a  single 
minute,  and  the  old  servant,  satisfied,  went  back  to  her  chair, 
muttering  words  of  prayer  to  herself,  without  taking  her  eyes 
off  Bianca  Maria. 

Very,  very  late,  after  having  wandered  through  the  streets, 
tiring  himself  by  walking,  ill-dressed,  unbrushed,  having 
lost  all  care  for  his  appearance,  quite  unrecognisable,  the 
Marquis  di  Formosa  came  home  to  find  the  door  open,  as  if 
they  had  heard  his  footsteps  from  a  distance.  Margherita 
came  up  to  him  in  the  dark  with  her  ghostlike  step. 

'  How  is  she  ?'  he  asked. 

'  Just  the  same,'  she  sighed  out. 

'  What  does  the  doctor  say  ?' 

'  He  orders  ice  and  quinine.  He  again  asked  for  Dr. 
Amati  to  be  sent  for.' 

'  I  told  you  never  to  mention  that  scoundrel's  name  !' 

'  Hush  !'  she  hissed  out  respectfully,  and  she  went  away. 

The  Marquis  was  seized  by  so  profound  an  anguish  that, 
the  old  faith  rising  again  in  his  heart,  he  sought  for  a  place 
to  kneel  down  and  pray  the  Lord  that  He  would  save  his 
daughter,  and  free  him  from  that  agony.  Alas !  the  small 
room  used  as  a  chapel  at  first,  where  Bianca  Maria  and  he 
had  prayed  together  so  often,  was  empty :  he,  after  having 
abused  the  saints  and  the  Virgin,  after  having  done  the 
sacrilege  of  punishing  Ecce  Homo,  had  sold  the  saints, 
Virgin,  and  Ecce  Homo  to  stake  the  money  at  the  lottery. 
There  were  no  more  guardian  saints  in  Cavalcanti  House  ; 
the  Virgin  and  her  Divine  Son  had  withdrawn  their  sad- 
dened eyes  from  insult.  There  was  nothing  left  in  that  house, 
nothing.  During  these  last  days,  throughout  the  poor  girl's 
illness,  they  had  lived  on  alms  ;  that  is  to  say,  off  some 


BIANCA  MARIA  CAVALCANTI  351 

allowance  inexhaustible  pity  of  Gennaro  Parascandolo  the 
usurer's  wife  had  granted  to  Margherita  and  Giovanni's  tears 
and  entreaties. 

The  Cavalcantis  were  holding  out  their  hands  for  alms 
now  !  For  many  weeks  he  had  had  no  money  to  stake, 
and  he  avoided  Don  Crescenzio's  lottery  bank,  as  he  had 
not  the  many  francs  he  owed  him  to  give  back ;  but  when 
Friday  came,  though  he  knew  they  were  reduced  to  private 
begging,  knowing  that  what  he  did  was  a  domestic  crime, 
he  came  to  Margherita  to  implore  her  to  give  him  two 
francs,  or  only  one,  to  gamble  with.  Only  on  that  Friday, 
confronted  by  Bianca  Maria's  illness,  he  had  not  dared  ; 
he  was  struck  incurably.  That  girlish  body,  stretched  on 
what  perhaps  might  be  her  death-bed  ;  that  head  crushed 
down  under  the  heavy  bag  of  ice ;  that  profile,  pinched  as  if 
it  was  rubbed  down  by  an  inward  hand ;  that  eyebrow,  that 
frowned  on  hearing  his  voice  only  ;  and  that  hand,  that 
hand  above  all,  that  chased  him  away  constantly,  obstinately, 
a  victim  to  a  dumb,  lively  horror  —  all  that  had  broken 
down  the  last  energies  of  his  old  age. 

Illnesses  of  old  people  make  the  old  thoughtful  and 
melancholy,  but  young  people's  illnesses  frighten  them  as  a 
thing  against  the  order  of  Nature.  Ah  !  in  these  moments  of 
anguish,  he  felt  so  weak,  so  old,  so  worn-out,  an  organism 
with  no  vitality,  a  lamp  with  no  oil.  And  shaking,  trembling, 
not  even  looking  towards  his  daughter's  bed,  he  went  to  sit 
in  his  usual  place,  letting  himself  go,  as  if  he  had  to  sit 
there  and  wait  for  death. 

Only  one  thing  could  give  him  back  a  flash  of  energy — 
that  is  to  say,  a  flash  of  hatred— and  it  was  the  name  of  the 
loathed  doctor,  which  was  repeated  from  time  to  time  by 
the  new  doctor  or  mentioned  by  his  own  servants,  who 
referred  to  him  in  spite  of  his  express  orders  against  it. 
She,  Bianca  Maria,  had  never  mentioned  it.  In  the  doleful 
convulsions  that  had  come  on  before  that  typhoid  she  had 
raved  at  great  length,  cried  out  over  and  over  again,  calling 
for  her  mother,  '  Mama,  mama  !'  like  a  child  in  danger,  like 
a  lost  child  ;  nothing  else.  Vainly  in  these  low  ravings,  in 
that  confused  muttering,  that  long,  disconnected  chatter, 
he  had  stretched  his  ears  to  hear  his  own  name  or  the 
scoundrel's  who  had  taken  his  daughter's  heart  from  him. 
She  had  always  called  for  her  mother,  no  one  else.  And  he 
trembled,  shivered,  in  case  of  hearing  that  name  coming 


352  THE  LAND  OF  COCKA  YNE 

from  her  lips,  still  keeping  up  in  his  old  age  and  tiredness,  in 
his  growing  weakness,  that  dull  rage,  that  implacable  hatred. 
Sometimes,  when  the  delirium  got  higher  and  higher  and 
haunted  him,  he  ran  away  from  the  room,  stopping  his  ears, 
always  fearing  she  would  call  on  that  name.  Outside  he 
stood  thus,  waiting,  undecided,  and  very  agitated. 

'  What  is  she  speaking  about  ?*  he  asked  Margherita  when 
she,  stupefied  and  frightened,  came  out  of  the  room. 

'  She  wants  her  mother,'  the  other  muttered,  crying 
silently,  for  it  seemed  to  her  a  forerunner  of  death. 

And  the  typhoid  went  on,  finishing  its  first  week,  not 
yielding  to  the  ice  or  the  quinine,  keeping  always  between 
a  hundred  and  four  and  a  hundred  and  five  degrees,  as  if  the 
mercury  in  the  thermometer  had  stuck  at  that  doleful  figure, 
a  funereal  cylinder  that  nothing  was  of  any  use  now  to  bring 
down. 

'  How  much  is  it  ?'  the  old  father  made  inquiry  with 
anxious  eyes  from  Margherita,  who  was  looking  at  the 
thermometer  held  against  the  sick  girl's  burning  skin. 

'  A  hundred  and  four  degrees,'  she  muttered  under  her 
breath  with  infinite  despair. 

Implacable  figure  !  To  bring  down  the  fire  that  burned 
away  Bianca  Maria's  blood  and  nerves,  seeing  that  quinine 
taken  by  the  mouth  in  large  doses  had  no  proper  effect, 
quinine  was  now  injected  with  a  tiny,  pretty  silver  syringe 
into  the  patient's  arm.  Not  having  the  strength  to  open 
her  eyes,  she  raised  herself  with  difficulty,  propped  up  on 
pillows,  and  held  up  in  Margherita's  arms,  and  her  head 
shook,  the  black  hair  stuck  to  her  temples,  and  dripped 
moisture  from  the  chill  of  the  ice-bag.  They  had  to  hold 
up  her  head,  too,  for  it  went  from  side  to  side.  Then, 
baring  the  poor  arms  all  dotted  by  the  silver  needle,  a  new 
burning,  painful  puncture  was  added  to  the  others.  She 
started,  but  only  slightly,  as  if  no  pain  was  worse  than  that 
sleep.  Sometimes  she  opened  her  eyes,  and  set  them  on 
Margherita's  face,  and  they  were  so  sad  in  their  expression 
of  weariness,  so  muddy  in  colour,  dry,  and  indifferent  now 
to  all  earthly  sights,  that  a  glance  from  them  wrung  the 
heart.  It  looked  as  if  they  had  emptied  out  the  fountain  of 
tears.  When  her  father  and  Margherita  saw  these  doleful 
eyes  in  front  of  them,  they  gave  a  start. 

1  My  child !  my  child !'  the  old  man  said  to  her,  holding 
her  hands. 


BIANCA  MARIA  CAVALCANTI  353 

Then  she,  disturbed  and  tired,  lowered  her  eyelids  at  once, 
and  sank  anew  into  that  stupefied  state  in  which  the  only 
two  signs  of  vitality  were  her  laboured  breathing  and  the 
high  temperature.  Very  seldom  did  the  quinine  injections 
succeed  in  bringing  down  the  high  fever ;  there  was  a  slight 
discouraging  variation,  nothing  more. 

Only  on  the  morning  of  the  tenth  day  she  seemed,  all  of 
a  sudden,  in  a  better  state.  It  was  sleep  instead  of  torpor, 
and  in  the  comforting  sleep  a  cold  sweat  ran  over  her  fore- 
head, which  Margherita  wiped  off  carefully.  The  poor  old 
woman  followed  tremblingly  every  minute  of  that  sleep,  as 
if  she  guessed  intuitively  Bianca  Maria's  life  was  to  depend 
on  it ;  and  while  she  said  her  prayers  over  mentally,  her 
whole  attention  was  fixed  on  the  loved  face  sharpened  by 
illness,  that  seemed  to  be  getting  back  renewed  brightness. 
Whilst  the  sound  sleep  lasted,  Margherita's  vigilant  ear 
heard  a  noise  in  the  flat.  She  got  up  on  tiptoe  and  went 
out.  It  was  the  Marquis  di  Formosa  coming  in  again,  and 
he  questioned  her  with  his  eyes  anxiously. 

'  She  is  resting  ;  she  is  better— she  is  much  better,'  mut- 
tered the  poor  old  woman,  putting  a  finger  to  her  lips  to 
enjoin  silence. 

The  father's  dry  eyes  filled  with  tears  ;  it  was  the  first 
good  news  in  ten  days'  anguish  and  fears.  He,  too,  went 
into  his  daughter's  room,  sitting  down  in  his  usual  place, 
watching  the  thin  face,  where  the  great  nervous  tension 
seemed  to  have  given  way  to  a  favourable  crisis. 

Margherita,  so  as  not  to  disturb  Bianca  Maria's  sleep, 
dared  not  make  use  of  the  thermometer  to  find  out  her 
temperature,  but  her  heart  told  her  the  fever  had  certainly 
gone  down.  Then,  both  silent,  she  praying  inwardly  and 
the  Marquis  di  Formosa  fishing  up  some  shreds  of  prayer 
from  the  depths  of  his  clouded  conscience,  they  spent  two 
hours  watching  over  the  invalid's  quiet  sleep.  It  was  dusk 
when  she  opened  her  eyes — the  large  eyes  that  had  been 
shut  for  ten  days  by  fever's  burning,  leaden  hand,  and  at 
once  Margherita  leant  over  her,  questioning  her  : 

'  How  do  you  feel  ?' 

To  her  astonishment,  the  girl,  instead  of  answering  with 
a  wave  of  the  hand  or  a  nod,  said  in  a  very  feeble  voice : 

'  I  am  better.' 

Also  the  Marquis  di  Formosa  had  come  up  beside  the 
bed,  and,  quivering  with  joy,  he  said  over  and  over  again  : 

23 


354 


THE  LAND  OF  COCKA  YNE 


'  My  child  !  my  child  !' 

'Do  you  want  anything?'  the  waiting-woman  asked,  for 
the  sake  of  hearing  the  feeble  voice  which  had  gone  to  her 
heart. 

'  No,  nothing  ;  I  feel  better,'  the  invalid  whispered,  with 
a  sigh  of  relief  from  her  unburdened  breast. 

Her  father  had  taken  hold  of  her  hand,  gazing  affection- 
ately at  his  daughter.  And  she,  who  for  ten  days  had 
driven  him  away  from  her  bed  by  her  look  and  the  waving 
of  her  hand,  smiled  on  him  this  time.  It  was  a  flash  of  light. 
He  could  do  nothing  but  stammer  out : 

'  My  child  !  my  child  !' 

And  Margherita  went  out  of  the  room  cheerfully,  as  if 
her  young  mistress  were  safe  —  safe  for  ever  from  the 
frightful  danger  she  had  gone  through  for  ten  days.  The 
Marquis  di  Formosa  had  sat  down  at  the  head  of  the  sick 
girl's  bed,  and,  holding  her  slight  hand  in  his,  he  felt  his 
darling's  fleshless  fingers  pressing  now  and  then  a  little 
harder  on  his  own,  as  a  loving  caress.  Twice  or  thrice  he 
leant  over  and  asked,  '  Would  you  like  anything  ?'  She 
had  not  replied,  but  that  rapid  flash  of  a  smile  had  come 
back.  It  was  night  already,  and  faces  could  not  be  made 
out  any  longer,  when,  on  a  new  question  from  her  father, 
Bianca  Maria  replied  :  '  Yes,  I  do.' 

'  What  do  you  want  ?     Tell  me  at  once  !' 

'  I  want  the  doctor  at  once,'  she  said. 

'  Do  you  feel  ill  ?'  the  old  man  asked,  misunderstanding 
her. 

'  No  ;  I  want  Dr.  Amati.' 

Her  father  put  his  hand  over  the  girl's  on  the  coverlet, 
but  he  said  nothing. 

'  Do  you  hear  ?  I  wish  for  Dr.  Amati,'  she  repeated 
in  a  louder  voice,  that  already  had  a  quiver  of  annoyance 
in  it. 

'  No,  my  dear,  it  cannot  be,'  he  replied,  trying  to  restrain 
himself,  thinking  of  her  illness,  and  remembering  her 
danger. 

*  I  want  Dr.  Amati,'  she  said  in  a  loud  voice,  raising  her 
head  from  the  pillow  with  a  peculiar  motion.  It  seemed, 
indeed,  to  the  old  man  that  she  had  ground  her  teeth  after 
having  announced  for  the  fourth  time  her  strange  demand. 

'  It  is  not  possible,  my  dear,'  he  muttered,  trying  to  hold 
in  his  own  burning  rage. 


BIANCA  MARIA   CAVALCANT1  355 

4  Go  and  call  Dr.  Amati !  Go  at  once  !'  she  shouted,  as 
if  giving  him  an  order. 

'  You  are  mad !'  he  cried  out,  rising  from  his  seat.  '  I 
will  never  go.' 

'  Yes,  yes,  you  will !'  she  yelled,  rising  on  the  pillow, 
clutching  at  the  sheet  with  her  clenched  hands  ;  '  you  will 
go  at  once,  and  bring  him  here  directly.  I  want  Amati 
beside  me — always  with  me.  Go  at  once  !' 

'  No,  no,  I  will  not !'  he  shouted  in  his  turn,  not  knowing 
what  he  was  doing.  *  He  will  never  put  a  foot  in  here  while 
I  am  alive.' 

Margherita  had  run  in,  quite  upset,  in  despair  a  second 
time,  but  still  more  despairing  from  the  new  turn  the  illness 
had  taken.  Hardly  had  Bianca  Maria  seen  her,  when  she 
called  out  to  her  : 

'  Margherita,  if  you  love  me,  go  and  call  Dr.  Amati.' 

'  I  forbid  you  to  ;  do  you  hear  ?'  the  old  Marquis  shrieked 
to  the  woman.  He  was  so  exasperated  that  his  hands 
shook,  his  eyes  gave  out  sparks. 

1  For  goodness'  sake,  miss,  do  not  get  in  such  a  state ; 
remember  you  are  talking  to  your  father.  Please,  my  lord, 
remember  my  lady  is  ill ;  she  is  not  in  her  right  mind.' 

'  I  am  not  mad ;  I  want  Dr.  Amati,'  the  girl  still  cried 
out,  clenching  her  fists,  grinding  her  teeth,  rolling  her  eyes 
so  convulsively  that  only  the  white  of  the  eyeball  could  be 
seen. 

'  Holy  Virgin  !  Holy  Virgin!'  Margherita  went  on  sobbing 
out. 

'  For  the  love  of  God,  if  you  are  fond  of  me,  go  and  call 
Dr.  Amati !'  the  sick  girl  sobbed  out,  her  head  swaying 
about,  sometimes  rising  from  the  pillow  and  falling  back 
upon  it. 

'  She  is  mad  !  she  is  mad !'  shouted  the  old  man,  raving. 

'  My  lord,  go  away  outside ;  I  beg  of  you,  go  away,' 
Margherita  implored,  seeing  that  his  daughter  fixed  her 
eyes,  now  full  of  intense  rage,  then  with  keen  sorrow,  on  her 
father,  and  that  the  sight  of  him  made  her  still  more  frantic. 

'  I  am  going  away — I  am  going  away;  but  she  will  not  see 
Dr.  Amati !'  he  shouted,  going  outside,  feeling  he  could  bear 
it  no  longer. 

But  from  the  drawing-room,  whither  he  had  borne  his 
anger,  he  heard  a  loud  shriek,  loud  and  agonizing,  as  if  the 
patient  were  driving  her  nails  into  her  flesh  ;  and  after  that 

23 — 2 


356  THE  LAND  OF  COCKA  YNE 

shriek  another,  lower,  but  equally  agonizing,  such  a  cry  of 
unbearable  sorrow  quivered  in  it,  and  words  spoken  now 
loudly,  now  in  low  tones,  that  came  to  him  confusedly. 
The  girl  had  fallen  into  convulsions.  Suddenly  the  sounds 
quieted  down,  and  then,  still  trembling  from  a  mixed  feeling 
of  rage,  pity  and  fear,  he  went  near  the  room ;  but  he  did 
not  go  in,  merely  calling  Margherita  to  the  door. 

1  How  is  she  ?' 

'  She  is  worse,  much  worse,'  she  said,  weeping  silently. 

'  But  what  is  she  saying  ?' 

'  She  wants  Dr.  Amati.1 

'  That  she  will  never  get.' 

These  short  discussions,  however,  though  the  invalid 
sank  at  intervals  into  a  state  of  coma,  were  heard  by  her, 
and  twice  on  coming  out  of  that  torpor  the  loud  shrieks  had 
burst  out  anew,  with  a  quivering  of  all  her  muscles,  espe- 
cially with  a  frightful  knotting  together  of  the  muscles  in  the 
nape  of  the  neck.  Throughout  the  cries  that  name,  the 
name  the  poor  thing  had  worshipped  so  long  in  secret,  that 
name  that  had  been  for  her  the  sign  of  salvation — that  name 
came  up  again  always  obstinately  in  her  delirium,  pro- 
claimed by  the  soul  that  knew  no  fetters  now  ;  imperiously, 
gently,  despairingly,  with  such  an  outflow  of  love  that 
Margherita  and  Giovanni,  who  ran  in  to  keep  down  the 
hysterical  girl's  arms,  felt  their  hearts  breaking.  From  the 
other  room,  as  the  sick  girl  raised  her  voice,  sometimes 
shrill,  then  deep,  calling  upon  Dr.  Amati,  the  Marquis 
di  Formosa  started  and  shuddered,  with  that  obstinate, 
blind  hatred  of  old  people  who  cannot  forgive.  Vainly, 
vainly  he  tried  to  think  of  something  else — not  to  hear,  not 
to  feel  the  despairing  sorrow  of  that  appeal.  It  was  no  use 
keeping  down  his  head  and  stopping  his  ears,  trusting  to 
the  farthest-off  room  in  the  house ;  that  clamorous  com- 
plaint still  reached  him  persistently — nothing  could  be  done 
to  check  it.  It  was  a  nightmare  now,  and  in  spite  of  the 
distance,  in  spite  of  closed  doors,  he  heard  clearly  and  dis- 
tinctly the  words  of  love  and  sorrow  in  which  Bianca  Maria 
called  on  Dr.  Amati ;  the  words  got  printed  on  his  mind,  and 
hammered  on  his  brain  like  a  persecution. 

That  went  on  for  an  hour  and  a  half,  and  she  did  not 
quiet  down  nor  stop  speaking,  finding  new  strength,  nervous 
strength,  to  call,  and  call  as  if  her  voice,  as  if  her  calls,  were 
to  go  through  the  wall,  across  the  streets,  were  to  get  to 


BIANCA  MARIA  CA  VALCANTI  357 

the  man  she  longed  for  to  save  her.  Oh,  that  nightmare, 
that  nightmare  !  to  hear  his  daughter's  ravings !  She  who  had 
thrust  him  away  from  her  bed,  now  was  making  desperate 
appeals  to  another  man.  Now  and  then,  as  if  to  put  an  end 
to  that  talking,  imploring  madness,  he  went  close  to  the 
room  door,  and  heard  Margherita's  level  voice,  as  she  held 
her  mistress  clasped  in  her  arms,  trying  to  calm  her,  whilst 
she  went  on  as  if  she  had  no  ear  for  other  voices,  as  if  she 
had  to  call  for  Dr.  Amati  until  she  saw  him  come  into  her 
room.  And  her  old  father  went  off  wild  and  desperate, 
shaking  with  rage  and  anguish,  not  knowing  what  to  do ; 
now  grovelling,  now  ferocious,  still  unsubdued  ;  keeping  up 
his  hatred,  not  able  to  calm  down,  his  blood  boiling  in  his 
veins,  and  a  shortness  of  breath  oppressing  him.  But  at  a 
certain  stage  he  heard  the  bell  ring,  and  someone  go  into  the 
flat,  and  then  into  Bianca  Maria's  room.  Formosa  stood 
still,  motionless,  astounded.  Who  had  come  in  then  ? 

When  Margherita  came  into  the  room  where  he  had 
taken  refuge,  and  called  him  with  a  wave  of  her  hand,  he 
followed  her  meekly.  Beside  the  sick  girl's  bed,  holding 
her  twitching  arms  and  looking  into  her  eyes,  was  the 
doctor  in  charge,  Morelli,  whom  poor  Margherita  had  called 
in.  But  Bianca  Maria,  even  under  the  doctor's  strong 
hands,  even  under  his  scrutinizing  glance,  went  on  trembling; 
her  head  rose  convulsively  from  the  pillow,  her  neck 
stretched  forward,  getting  rigid,  and  then  her  head  fell  back 
again,  worn  out,  still  with  a  continued  slight  movement 
backward?  and  forwards,  whilst  unweariedly  she  went  on 
saying,  sometimes  low,  then  shrilly,  '  Amati  .  .  .  Amati  .  .  . 
Amati  ...  I  want  Amati.  .  .  .' 

'  But  what  is  the  matter  with  her  ?'  asked  Formosa, 
clasping  his  hands,  with  tears  in  his  eyes. 

'  She  must  have  had  some  strong  excitement  two  or  three 
hours  ago  :  had  she  not  ?' 

'  Yes,  I  fear  so.' 

'  Was  it  from  some  alarm,  some  noise  ?' 

'  I  ...  I  don't  .  .  .  quite  know.' 

'  Well,  she  got  excited  ?     Did  she  cry  out  ?' 

'  Yes  .  .  .  she  did.' 

'  Why  did  you  let  her  get  excited  ?  Why  did  you  not  let 
her  have  what  she  wanted  ?  Do  you  know  the  danger  your 
daughter  is  running  ?' 

'  I  do  not  know  ...  I  know  nothing.     What  do   you 


358  THE  LAND  OF  COCKAYNE 

expect  me  to  know  ?'  the  old  man  shouted,  holding  out  his 
hands,  beseeching  like  a  child. 

'  The  danger  is  of  meningitis,'  said  the  doctor  through  his 
clenched  teeth. 

Now  the  invalid  had  half  opened  her  eyes.  The  doctor 
examined  her  pupils.  Her  eye  seemed  glassy,  rigid,  as  her 
whole  person  had  got. 

'  Doctor,  what  is  it  ?  is  she  dead  ?'  yelled  the  old  man,  as 
if  he  were  mad. 

'  It  is  temporary  paralysis,  from  meningitis.' 

'  What  is  to  be  done  ?' 

'Well,  we  will  see.  Meanwhile  I  beg  you  to  have 
Dr.  Amati  called  in.' 

The  old  man  looked  at  him,  disordered. 

'  What  do  you  say  ?' 

'  Send  and  call  Amati.     Do  you  not  see  she  wants  him  ?' 

'  .  .  .  She  is  raving.' 

'Yes,  sir;  but  when  she  asked  for  him,  she  must  have 
been  conscious  ;  and  even  in  delirium  you  must  obey  her, 
my  lord.' 

4  Am  I  to  obey  ?' 

4  Your  daughter  is  in  a  serious  state ;  it  is  better  to  satisfy 
her.' 

'  Is  she  in  danger?' 

4  You  may  lose  her  from  one  hour  to  another.  She  has 
no  strength  to  bear  up  against  meningitis.' 

1  Doctor,  doctor,  do  not  say  that !' 

'My  dear  sir,  do  you  want  me  to  tell  you  the  truth, 
especially  as  the  poor  patient  cannot  hear  us  ?  First  of  all, 
you  would  not  allow  Amati  to  be  called ;  then  you  let  the 
young  lady  get  into  this  state  of  exasperation.  .  .  .  You 
will  not  go  on  with  this  refusal  ?  The  girl  is  dying.  .  .  .' 

*  O  holy  God !'  blasphemed  the  Marquis. 

'  I  will  go  to  Amati's  house,'  Morelli  said. 
'  ...  He  will  not  come.' 

*  Why  should  he  not  ?     Was  he  not  the  doctor  in  charge  ? 
He  is  an  honest  man ;  he  is  a  great  doctor.' 

'  .  .  .  He  will  not  come,'  Formosa  repeated. 

'  Then  go  yourself,  my  lord.' 

Now,  whilst  Formosa  made  a  despairing  gesture,  the  sick 
girl  had  started  up,  and  again  rapidly  through  her  clenched 
teeth  she  had  begun  to  say :  '  Amati !  .  .  .  Amati !  .  .  .  I 
want  Amati !  .  .  .' 


BIANCA  MARIA  CAVALCANTI  359 

'  Do  you  hear  ?'  said  Morelli. 

'  But  I  cannot!'  shouted  Formosa,  'for  I  turned  that  man 
out  of  my  house.  I  would  not  let  my  daughter  marry  him. 
I  cannot  humble  myself  to  him.' 

'  Very  well,  but  my  lady  is  dying,'  said  the  doctor,  holding 
down  the  girl's  hands,  which  were  clapping  together. 

'  Go  and  call  Amati !  For  mercy's  sake,  for  the  love  of 
God,  do  not  give  me  up !  Call  Amati !'  groaned  the  invalid. 

'  My  God  !  what  a  punishment !  what  a  punishment !'  the 
old  man  cried  out,  tearing  his  hair.  '  But,  doctor,  give  her 
something  ;  do  not  let  her  die  !' 

'  .  .  .  Amati !  .  .  .  Amati !  .  .  .  I  want  Amati !'  she 
said,  raving,  rolling  her  eyes  fearfully.  Then,  falling  back 
again,  worn  out,  on  the  bed  with  a  fresh  stroke  of  paralysis, 
the  only  living  thing  in  her  was  her  voice,  asking  for  Amati ; 
still  the  only  idea  of  her  wandering  reason  was  Amati, 
Amati,  Amati. 

'  I  will  write  to  him,'  the  old  man  said  desolately,  going 
to  another  room  whilst  the  doctor  was  trying  to  put  new  ice 
on  Bianca  Maria's  burning  head. 

The  Marquis  di  Formosa  was  writing,  but  it  was  unbear- 
able, the  shame  of  having  to  give  in,  and  the  words  would 
not  come  from  his  pen.  He  tore  two  sheets.  At  last  a 
short  letter  came  out,  in  which  he  asked  Dr.  Amati  to  come 
to  his  house,  as  his  daughter  was  ill — nothing  more.  When 
he  had  to  write  the  address  he  nearly  smashed  the  pen. 
Then,  not  looking  Giovanni  in  the  face,  he  told  him  to  run 
to  Dr. — yes',  to  Dr.  Amati's.  The  poor  old  thing  ran, 
whilst  Morelli  gave  calomel  pills  to  his  delirious  patient, 
who  was  crying  out,  for  the  pain  in  her  head  had  got  un- 
bearable, frightful.  Her  father,  having  carried  out  his  first 
sacrifice,  felt  he  was  going  mad  with  these  howls,  fearing 
lest  he  should  begin  to  howl  and  howl  like  her,  as  if  he  had 
caught  meningitis  from  her.  Now  that  he  had  written  the 
letter,  carried  out  an  unbearable  sacrifice,  the  Marquis  di 
Formosa  began  to  wish  that  Dr.  Amati  would  come  soon, 
at  least.  It  was  impossible  for  him  to  bear  these  cries, 
laments,  and  groans  any  longer,  where  one  name  came 
up  continuously.  Now  he  was  counting  the  minutes  for 
Giovanni  to  come  back,  straining  his  ears  if  he  heard  the 
noise  of  a  door  opening.  Time  was  passing,  and  the  sick 
girl,  in  spite  of  ice,  in  spite  of  calomel,  was  raving,  with 
glaring  eyes,  a  prey  to  the  inflammation  that  seemed  to  be 


360  THE  LAND  OF  COCKA  YNE 

burning  up  her  brain.  Here  was  a  door  opening;  some- 
one was  coming  towards  the  room  where  the  Marquis  di 
Formosa  had  taken  refuge  in  his  desperation.  It  was 
Giovanni  alone,  and  he  looked  so  tired,  so  old,  so  sad,  that 
the  Marquis  shivered  as  he  asked  him  : 

'  Well  ?' 

'  Dr.  Amati  is  not  coming.' 

'  Was  he  not  at  home  ?' 

*  He  was  not.     I  waited  for  him  under  the  portico ;  then 
he  came  back.  .  .  .' 

'Well,  then,  what  happened  ?' 

'  He  read  the  letter  .  .  .  and  he  said  he  was  too  busy  ; 
that  the  young  lady  was  sure  to  have  a  good  doctor.' 

'  Did  you  not  .  .  .  beg  .  .  .  him  to  come.' 

'  I  did,  my  lord.  He  got  severe  then,  and  went  away 
muttering  something  that  I  did  not  understand.' 

*  You  ought  to  have  gone  upstairs  and  insisted.' 
'  I  had  not  the  courage.' 

'  But  do  you  not  know  my  lady  is  dying  for  want  of  him  ? 
Do  you  not  know  that  ?' 

'  I  do  know  it,  my  lord ;  but  the  doctor  used  me  ill.  I 
am  a  poor  servant.' 

'  He  is  right,'  said  the  old  man  slowly  ;  '  I  insulted  him 
deeply.' 

'  My  lord,  my  lord,  go  yourself ;  he  will  not  refuse  you.' 

'  You  are  mad.' 

'  For  the  young  lady's  sake.' 

'  He  will  refuse.     He  will  insult  me.' 

'  For  her  sake.' 

'  No,  no  ;  it  is  too  much  to  expect.  .  .  .' 

1  But,  my  lord,  you  said  it  yourself :  my  lady  is  dying.' 

1  Go  away !'  shouted  the  Marquis  brutally,  driving  his 
servant  away. 

He  was  left  alone.  His  pride  rebelled  against  the  idea 
of  humbling  himself  before  the  man  he  had  abused.  He 
suffered  frightfully ;  his  daughter's  voice,  now  muttering  in 
a  low  tone,  now  yelling  shrilly,  calling  out  'Amati,'  gave 
him  a  feeling  of  physical  pain,  of  a  red-hot  iron  scorching 
his  flesh.  Within  him,  however,  as  time  passed,  as  the 
girl's  danger  increased,  a  work  of  clearing  away  was  going 
on,  in  which  all  the  old  and  the  new  rebellions  of  his  haughty 
feelings  went  on  tumbling  down,  and  in  place  of  the  pride 
came  a  tremendous  pity,  a  great  affection,  an  immense 


BIANCA  MARIA  CAVALCANTI  361 

sorrow.  The  hours  flew  by  whilst  he  walked  up  and  down, 
gnawing  at  the  curb  of  the  last  chains  in  which  his  heart 
was  bending,  till  at  last  it  sank  to  the  earth ;  and  that 
eternal  delirious  voice  which  could  say  nothing  but  the 
name  of  Antonio  Amati  never  ceased.  He  no  longer  shook 
with  anger ;  hatred  was  silent,  and  when  Dr.  Morelli, 
having  gone  away  and  come  back,  asked  for  Amati,  he 
replied : 

'  He  has  not  come.     I  am  going  myself.' 

'  Will  you  bring  him  ?' 

'  Yes,  I  will.' 

It  was  very  late,  however,  when  he  set  out  on  foot  to  go 
to  Santa  Lucia  Road,  where  Dr.  Amati  was  now  living.  It 
was  nearly  midnight,  and  people  had  turned  out  in  Toledo 
in  the  mildness  of  the  April  evening.  In  spite  of  being  old, 
the  Marquis  ran  through  the  streets,  urged  by  a  nervous 
force,  and  when  he  got  to  the  big  gateway  of  the  palazzo 
Amati  lived  in,  he  went  up  the  stairs  rapidly,  not  giving  any 
answer  to  the  porter,  who  asked  where  he  was  going. 

'  Tell  Dr.  Amati  that  the  Marquis  di  Formosa  is  here,' 
he  told  the  housekeeper,  who  came  to  open  the  door  to 
him. 

'  Really  ...  he  is  studying.' 

'  Tell  him,  I  beg  of  you.  It  is  very  urgent  .  .  .'  the  old 
man  implored  ;  his  pride  was  completely  gone.  She  went  off, 
and  came  back  again  at  once,  making  the  Marquis  a  sign  to 
come  in.  He  crossed  two  sitting-rooms,  and  came  to  a 
study  all  in  shadow,  where  the  lamp-light  was  concentrated 
on  a  large  table  scattered  with  papers  and  books.  But  Dr. 
Amati  was  standing  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  waiting. 
These  two  men,  who  had  hated  each  other  so  much,  looked 
at  one  another,  with  the  same  sorrow  they  had  in  common, 
and  pity  for  the  unhappy  dying  girl  cut  short  all  rancour. 
They  looked  at  each  other. 

'  What  is  it  ?'  Amati  asked  in  a  weak  voice. 

'  She  is  dying,'  said  Formosa  with  a  despairing  gesture. 

'  Of  what  ?' 

*  Of  meningitis.' 

An  earthy  pallor  spread  over  the  doctor's  face,  and  two 
lines  formed  themselves  about  his  lips.  And  he  dared  not 
make  the  Marquis  any  reproaches.  Had  he  not  himself 
forsaken  the  poor  girl,  though  he  had  promised  and  sworn 
to  save  her  ?  Had  he  not  through  pride  left  the  delicate, 


362  THE  LAND  OF  COCKA  YNE 

sickly  flower  a  prey  to  all  moral  and  physical  evils  ?  Both 
of  them  were  guilty,  both. 

4  Let  us  start,  then,'  he  said.  They  went  out  together, 
called  for  a  cab,  and  had  the  hood  put  up,  as  if  they  wanted 
to  hide  their  sorrow.  They  did  not  speak  during  the  drive. 
Only  whilst  he  bit  at  his  spent  cigar  Dr.  Amati  from  time 
to  time  asked  some  medical  questions. 

'  How  long  has  she  had  meningitis  ?  is  this  the  first  day 
of  it  ?' 

*  Yes  ;  but  she  has  had  typhoid  fever  for  nine  days.' 
'  Had  she  high  fever  ?' 

'  It  went  up  to  a  hundred  and  four  and  a  hundred  and  five.' 

'  Had  she  bad  headaches  ?' 

'  Frightful  headaches.' 

'  Did  she  have  convulsions  ?' 

'Yes,  at  intervals.' 

'  Does  she  roll  her  eyes  about  ?' 

'  Yes,  she  rolls  her  eyes.' 

'  Do  the  muscles  at  the  nape  of  her  neck  contract  ?' 

'  Yes,  they  do.' 

'  Was  there  some  reason  for  it  ?' 

*  Yes,'  said  the  father  humbly,  almost  sobbing   out  his 
monosyllable. 

'  Did  she  get  calomel  ?' 

'  Yes ;  Morelli  gave  that.' 

'  Did  it  not  soothe  her  ?' 

'  No,  not  a  bit.  Often  she  is  paralyzed,  but  for  a  short 
time.' 

'  It  is  just  meningitis,'  the  doctor  muttered  thoughtfully. 

The  carriage  went  on  and  on,  as  well  as  it  could  with  an 
ordinary  night  horse.  They  were  not  getting  there  yet,  and 
they  had  already  urged  the  driver  to  hurry. 

'  Is  she  delirious  ?'  the  doctor  asked  again. 

'  I  do  not  know — I  am  not  sure  if  it  is  delirium ;  but  she 
is  always  speaking  convulsively.' 

'  What  does  she  say  ?' 

'  She  calls  out  for  you.' 

'  For  me  ?' 

'  Yes — always  for  you.' 

Ah  !  the  doctor's  heart  broke  on  hearing  that.  The  old 
father  heard  him  say,  like  a  frightened  prayer,  '  My  God !' 
They  said  nothing  more.  They  found  the  door  open.  Poor 
old  Giovanni  had  waited  for  them  on  the  landing,  leaning 


BIANCA  MARIA   CAVALCANTI  363 

over  the  railing,  looking  into  the  entrance-hall,  anxious  to 
see  them  arrive,  but  certain  that  the  doctor  would  come. 

'  How  is  she  ?'  asked  her  father  at  once ;  he  had  a  constant 
need  of  being  reassured. 

'  Just  as  she  is  bound  to  be,'  sighed  the  old  butler,  going 
on  in  front.  '  She  is  much  the  same.' 

'  Is  she  still  delirious  ?' 

'  Yes,  still  delirious.' 

They  went  in  very  softly  to  the  small  room.  Dr.  Morelli 
had  gone  away  a  little  while  before,  leaving  a  short  note  for 
Dr.  Amati.  But  he  went  straight  to  the  sick  girl's  bed. 
Her  voice,  tired  now,  but  still  impassioned,  went  on  always 
repeating  Amati's  name,  but  her  head  was  sunk  in  the 
pillows,  and  her  eyes  half  shut.  He  saw  everything  at  once, 
and  the  disorder  of  his  mind  must  have  been  tremendous, 
for  he  could  not  manage  to  control  his  face — he,  the  strong, 
invincible  man.  And  he  hesitated  a  minute  before  replying 
to  the  unhappy,  raving  girl  who  went  on  calling  to  him, 
fearing  to  cause  too  strong  an  impression  on  her  nerves ; 
but  he  could  not  resist  the  feeble  voice  that  went  straight  to 
his  heart  and  made  it  bleed  with  tenderness  ;  he  said  : 

'  Bianca  Maria.' 

What  a  cry  the  answer  was !  She  got  up,  her  face 
suddenly  flaming ;  her  eyes  grew  enormous.  She  threw 
her  arms  round  his  neck,  and  leant  her  head  on  his  breast, 
crying  out : 

'  Oh,  my  love !  my  love !  how  long  you  have  been  in 
coming  !  Do  not  leave  me  again — never  forsake  me ;  it  is 
so  long  since  I  have  been  calling  for  you — do  not  leave  me.' 

'  Do  not  fear  ;  I  will  not  leave  you  .  .  .'  he  muttered, 
trying  to  overcome  his  emotion,  petting  her  fine,  ruffled, 
tumbled  hair. 

'  Never  go  away  from  me  again — never !  .  .  .'  she  cried 
out  passionately,  clinging  with  her  arms  round  his  neck. 
'  If  you  forsake  me  I  shall  die.' 

'  Keep  quiet,  Bianca  Maria,  be  quiet — do  not  say  such 
things.' 

'  I  will  say  so  !' — she  raised  her  voice,  irritated  at  being 
contradicted — 'if  I  have  not  you  it  is  death  for  me.  But 
you  will  not  let  me  die  ?  Ah,  do  not  leave  me  to  die !' 

'  My  darling,  be  quiet — be  quiet,'  he  said,  not  able  to 
control  himself,  trying  to  loosen  the  chain  of  her  arms  round 
his  neck. 


364  THE  LAND  OF  COCKAYNE 

'  Do  not  lift  me  from  here !  do  not  make  me  let  go  !'  she 
shrieked,  making  desperate  motions  with  her  head.  '  If  you 
make  me  let  go,  I  feel  that  death  will  take  hold  of  me.  .  .  .' 

'  Oh,  Bianca,  Bianca,  be  quiet,  for  my  sake !  do  not  kill 
me !'  said  the  strong  man,  now  become  the  weakest  and 
wretchedest  among  men. 

'  Death  will  catch  hold  of  me !  it  is  here  behind  me  !  I 
feel  it !  You  alone  can  save  me !  Do  not  let  me  die — I  do 
not  wish  to  die  :  you  know  I  do  not  wish  to  die  !' 

'You  will  not  die.  Hush,  my  dear,  or  you  will  get 
worse.  I  am  here  :  I  will  not  go  away  ever  again — I  will 
not  leave  you  !' 

' .  .  .  I  do  not  wish  to  die !'  she  ended  up,  again  getting 
a  little  quieter.  They  remained  like  that  for  some  time. 
The  father  was  standing  at  the  foot  of  the  bed,  leaning 
against  the  bed-rail,  with  his  eyes  down,  feeling  in  his 
broken  pride,  in  his  wounded  soul,  the  full  weight  of  the 
chastisement  the  Lord  was  heaping  on  him,  as  a  punish- 
ment for  his  lengthened  sin. 

Very  softly,  seeing  that  the  girl  had  stopped  speaking, 
that  her  eyes  were  closing,  Dr.  Amati  tried  to  put  her  head 
back  on  the  pillow  ;  but  she  felt  the  movement,  and  while 
he  bent  down  she  drew  him  to  her  at  the  same  time,  and  he 
had  to  stoop,  since  her  arms  would  not  let  go.  They 
remained  like  that,  she  dozing,  he  leaning  over  in  an  un- 
comfortable position,  in  such  anguish  at  her  state  and  his 
own  powerlessness  that  the  sensation  of  physical  discomfort 
did  not  affect  him.  Grief  took  such  a  violent  hold  of  him 
that  he  seemed  about  to  suffocate,  not  being  able  to  weep, 
cry  out,  or  speak  now  the  unhappy  girl  was  dozing  ;  but 
sometimes  she  gave  a  start,  and  an  expression  of  painful 
annoyance  came  over  her  fleshless  face.  An  idea  seemed 
to  come  into  her  mind  :  either  she  heard  a  voice  the  others 
did  not,  or  saw  some  fanciful  sight,  for  her  eyelids  fluttered 
and  her  lips  drew  back  from  her  whitish  gums.  Then  she 
opened  her  eyes,  as  if  she  had  found  out  where  that  noise, 
that  sight,  that  disagreeable  impression,  came  from,  and  with 
a  thread  of  voice,  which  only  the  doctor  heard,  she  called : 

'  Love  !' 

'  What  is  it  you  want  ?' 

'  Send  him  away.' 

'  Who  do  you  mean  ?' 

'  My  father.' 


BIANCA  MARIA   CAVALCANTI  365 

The  doctor  turned  pale,  and  did  not  answer.  He  gave  a 
side-glance  at  the  old  man,  who  was  still  standing  at  the 
foot  of  the  bed  with  his  eyes  cast  down  in  sorrowful 
thought. 

'  I  beg  of  you,  send  him  away,'  she  began  again,  speaking 
into  his  ear. 

'  But  why  do  you  wish  it  ?' 

'  Just  because — I  don't  wish  to  see  him.  Send  him  away. 
He  must  go  away.' 

'  Bianca  Maria,  remember  he  is  your  father.' 

'  Look  here — listen,'  she  said,  pulling  him  nearer  to  her, 
so  that  she  could  speak  lower.  '  He  is  my  father,'  she 
whispered ;  then,  with  a  smothered  fear  and  an  immense 
bitterness,  '  but  he  has  killed  me  !' 

'  Do  not  speak  like  that,'  he  replied,  turning  his  head  the 
other  way  that  she  might  not  see  his  feelings. 

'  I  tell  you  I  am  dying  through  him.  I  am  not  raving, 
you  know ;  I  am  in  my  senses,'  she  replied,  opening  her 
eyes  wide  with  that  babyish  trick  of  dying  children  that 
drives  mothers  mad  with  grief. 

He  shook  his  head,  as  if  he  could  not  tell  what  to  do  nor 
what  to  say. 

'  Send  him  away !'  she  insisted,  in  a  rage,  with  the  fatal 
outbursting  fury  of  meningitis. 

'  I  cannot  do  it,  Bianca  Maria.  .  .  .' 

'  If  you  do  not  send  him  away  yourself,  I  will  get  up  and 
shriek  out  to  him  to  go  away,  never  to  come  before  me 
again — never,  for  the  future  :  do  you  hear  ?' 

'  Wait  a  moment,'  he  said,  as  he  made  up  his  mind, 
resigned. 

And  he  left  her,  loosening  himself  from  her,  putting  back 
her  thin  arms  on  the  coverlet.  She  followed  him  with  her 
glance,  never  taking  her  eyes  off  him,  as  if  through  them 
she  could  know  what  Dr.  Amati  was  saying  to  her  father  in 
a  low  tone. 

Dr.  Amati,  with  great  delicacy  and  a  shudder  of  grief 
that  made  his  voice  shake  uncontrollably,  was  explaining 
to  him  that  meningitis  is  a  frightful  malady  which  burns  the 
brain,  breaks  the  nerves,  and  makes  the  unlucky  patients 
attacked  by  it  rave  for  days  and  days :  it  incites  them  to 
constant  anger,  and  fury,  even.  Poor  Bianca  Maria  was  a 
victim  to  this  fancy,  that  she  could  not  bear  to  have  anyone 
in  her  room;  and  that  if  he  loved  his  daughter,  if  he  did  not 


360  THE  LAND  OF  COCKA  YNE 

wish  to  hear  her  burst  out  into  wild  talk,  would  he  be  so 
kind  as  to  go  into  another  room  ?   .  .  . 

'  Did  my  daughter  tell  you  that  ?'  the  old  man  asked, 
deadly  pale,  with  his  eyebrows  knitted. 

'  Yes,  it  was  she  who  said  it.' 

'  Does  she  wish  to  have  no  one  in  her  room  ?' 

'No,  no  one.' 

'  Except  yourself,  is  that  it  ?' 

'  Yes,  I  may  stay.' 

'  Does  my  daughter  turn  me  out  ?'  shrieked  the  old 
man. 

'  For  goodness'  sake,  my  lord,  do  not  get  irritated  !  Have 
pity  on  your  daughter,  yourself,  and  me.' 

'  I  will  not  go  away  unless  she  tells  me  herself,  do  you 
hear  ?  Bianca  Maria !'  the  Marquis  called  out,  going  up 
close  to  the  bed. 

She  looked  at  her  father  with  the  greatest  intensity,  as  if 
she  was  answering  him. 

'  Bianca  Maria,'  shouted  the  exasperated  old  man,  '  is  it 
true  that  you  do  not  want  to  have  me  in  your  room  ?  Say 
yourself  if  it  is  true.  I  do  not  believe  this  man.  You  must 
say  it  yourself.' 

'  It  is  true,'  she  said  in  a  very  clear  voice,  looking  at  her 
father. 

He  cast  down  his  eyes,  where  the  last  tears  of  old  age 
were  showing,  and  his  head  sank  on  his  breast,  overcome 
by  the  inflexible  punishment  that  came  to  him  from  the 
raving  girl — from  his  dying  victim.  He  went  out  without 
turning  round.  And  stooping,  as  if  he  were  a  hundred 
years  old,  alone,  speechless,  he  went  away  to  what  had  been 
his  study,  where  only  an  old  table  and  a  chair  were  left. 
There,  lying  forward  with  his  face  in  his  hands,  with  no 
conception  either  of  time  or  things,  the  old  sinner  sank  into 
the  immeasurable  bitterness  of  his  punishment.  Sometimes 
Bianca  Maria's  voice  came  to  him,  feeble  or  loud,  ever 
telling  Amati : 

'  I  do  not  want  to  die — I  will  not  die !  Save  me !  save 
me !  I  am  only  twenty  !  I  will  not  die !' 

The  voice,  the  despairing  words,  said  in  delirium,  but 
which  still  seemed  to  be  a  lament  and  a  curse,  had  a  cruel 
effect  on  him.  He  had  not  strength  left  to  get  up  and  go  out, 
to  leave  the  house  alone,  to  die  like  a  dog  on  some  church 
steps,  unwept  for  and  unregretted.  He  did  not  get  up  to  go 


BIANCA  MARIA  CAVALCANTI  367 

beside  the  dying  girl,  for  his  daughter  had  turned  him  out, 
keeping  by  her  the  only  person  she  had  loved. 

'  I  will  not  die,  love  !  I  will  not  die  !'  the  delirious  girl 
was  saying. 

'  She  is  right — she  is  right,'  her  father  thought,  giving  a 
start. 

Whilst  the  hours  went  by  he  heard,  from  where  he  was, 
the  doctor  going  backwards  and  forwards,  in  his  effort  to 
save  the  girl's  life,  the  hurried  orders,  Giovanni  going  out 
and  the  assistant  doctor  coming  in.  He  had  no  right  now 
to  come  forward  and  know  what  was  going  on,  and,  in  fact, 
he  was  forgotten  there,  as  if  he  had  been  dead  for  years 
and  years,  as  if  no  Marquis  di  Formosa  had  ever  existed. 
Would  it  not  be  better  for  him  if  he  were  dead,  since  every- 
one had  forsaken  him  ?  '  It  is  what  I  deserve,'  he  thought 
to  himself. 

He  strained  his  ears  sometimes,  as  if  the  noises  that 
came  to  him  were  to  tell  him  that  his  daughter  was  getting 
better,  that  the  doctor  was  giving  her  strong,  effective 
remedies  ;  but,  except  for  the  servants,  the  assistant,  and 
the  doctor  going  about  their  work,  he  heard  nothing  else  but 
the  constant  agonizing  cry  :  '  I  will  not  die  !  I  will  not  die  ! 
Love,  save  me !' 

He  sank  into  a  slumber,  with  his  old  head  resting  on  his 
arms,  towards  dawn,  still  hearing  in  this  slight  unconscious- 
ness that  same  cry  of  anguish.  It  was  Giovanni  who 
wakened  him,  at  full  daylight,  by  bringing  him  a  cup  of 
coffee.  The  father,  turned  out  of  his  daughter's  room, 
questioned  the  servant  with  his  eyes. 

'  She  is  still  in  the  same  state — just  the  same.' 

'  Then,  not  even  Amati  can  save  her — not  even  him  ?' 

'  He  is  trying  to,  but  he  is  in  despair.' 

The  Marquis  di  Formosa  spent  three  days  and  nights  in 
that  room  alone,  not  seeing  a  bed  and  hardly  touching  the 
little  food  that  was  brought  in  for  the  three  days  and  nights 
that  Bianca  Maria's  dying  agony  lasted.  The  old  man's 
face,  always  of  a  reddish  tinge,  in  spite  of  his  age,  was  now 
streaked  with  purple,  his  white  hair,  when  Giovanni  and 
Margherita  came  to  him,  was  tragically  disordered.  Only, 
from  seeing  their  crushed  state,  he  asked  them  no  more  ques- 
tions. Did  he  not  hear  her  still  raving,  crying  out  that  at 
her  age  she  did  not  want  to  die,  she  would  not  die,  adding 
the  most  heartrending  supplications  and  cries  ? 


368  THE  LAND  OF  COCK  A  YNE 

The  two  servants  told  him  nothing ;  his  hearing  had  got 
more  acute,  and  not  a  word  of  the  raving  went  past  unheard. 
Still,  that  very  vitality  of  nervous  strength,  that  strong 
voice,  deluded  him  as  being  a  sort  of  health,  and  in  the  short 
intervals  of  silence  he  almost  wished  the  raving  would 
begin  again.  But  the  third  day,  in  the  morning,  a  new 
painful  sensation  drew  him  out  of  that  stupor.  The  delirious 
girl,  in  a  choked  voice,  was  calling  for  her  mother,  begging 
her  not  to  let  her  die.  Sometimes  she  stopped  speaking  ; 
he  looked  round  him,  alarmed  at  these  sudden  silences, 
which  got  longer,  starting  when  again  Bianca  Maria  began 
to  cry  out : 

'  Mother,  I  will  not  die  !  I  will  not — I  will  not,  mother 
dear !' 

About  two  hours  after  midnight,  on  the  third  day,  still 
seated  by  his  small  table,  slumber  came  upon  him,  with  the 
raving  still  echoing  in  his  ears.  How  long  did  he  sleep  ? 
When  he  wakened,  the  silence  was  so  profound  that  it 
frightened  him.  He  waited  to  hear  the  voice  crying  out 
not  to  die  yet.  There  was  nothing.  He  counted  the  time 
from  the  wasting  of  the  candle ;  two  hours  must  have 
gone  by. 

A  horrible  fear  took  hold  of  him  ;  he  dared  not  move. 
He  looked  under  the  doorway  arch,  and  saw  Margherita's 
white  face  looking  at  him.  He  understood.  Still,  mechani- 
cally he  asked : 

*  How  is  Donna  Bianca  ?' 

*  She  is  well,'  the  old  woman  said  feebly. 
'  When  did  it  happen  ?' 

'  An  hour  ago.' 

'  Did  she  not  .  .  .  did  she  not  ask  for  me  ?' 

'  No,  my  lord.' 

He  tried  to  get  up  ;  he  could  not.  He  thought  that  death 
would  lay  hold  of  him  there,  on  that  seat,  at  once,  since 
young  people  of  twenty  die  before  old  men  of  sixty.  Now 
Dr.  Amati  had  come  into  the  room.  He  was  unrecog- 
nisable ;  a  deadly  weight  had  broken  down  all  his  moral 
and  physical  energies.  Great  silent,  child's  tears  rolled 
down  his  cheeks.  They  said  nothing  for  a  time. 

'  Did  she  suffer  a  great  deal  ?'  the  father  asked. 

'  Yes,  frightfully.  .  .  .' 

'  Were  you  not  able  to  do  anything  to  .  .  .' 

'  No,  I  was  able  to  do  nothing,'  the  doctor  said,  beaten, 


BIANCA  MARIA   CAVALCANTI  369 

holding  out  his  arms  as  he  owned  to  the  most  horrible  of 
his  failures. 

The  old  man,  his  face  now  rigid  in  tragic  expression, 
was  not  crying.  Like  a  child  who  is  not  to  be  comforted, 
Dr.  Amati  took  him  by  the  hand,  lifted  him  from  his  chair, 
and  said  gently : 

'  Come  and  see  her.' 

They  went.  The  Marchesina  di  Formosa  Bianca  Maria 
Cavalcanti  was  lying  on  her  small  white  bed,  her  head 
rather  sloping  on  one  shoulder,  the  waxen  hands,  with  dis- 
coloured fingers,  clasped  over  a  rosary.  A  soft  white  robe 
had  been  put  over  her  wasted  body.  The  violet-shaded 
mouth  was  half  open,  the  clayey  eyelids  lowered.  She 
seemed  very  much  smaller,  like  a  girl  in  her  teens.  On  her 
face  there  was  only  the  haughty  seal  of  death,  that  soothes 
all  and  forgives  all.  It  was  not  serenity,  but  peace. 

From  the  doorway  the  two  men  gazed  on  the  small 
figure,  with  long,  black  hair  flowing  over  it.  They  did  not 
go  in ;  motionless,  both  kept  their  eyes  on  the  mortal 
remains,  and  Amati  repeated  gently,  as  if  to  himself,  like 
a  child  whom  nothing  could  comfort : 

'  There  should  be  flowers — flowers.  .   .  .' 

The  old  man  did  not  hear  him.  He  looked  at  his  dead 
daughter,  saying  not  a  word,  giving  no  sigh ;  he  bent  his 
great  frame  and  knelt  down  in  the  doorway,  holding  out  his 
arms  for  forgiveness,  like  old  Lear  before  the  sweet  corpse 
of  Cordelia. 


THE    END 


BILLING   AND  SONS,    LTD.,    PRINTERS,   GUILDFORD 


University  of  California 

SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 

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Return  this  material  to  the  library 

from  which  it  was  borrowed. 


REC'D  LP-URL 

QL  JAN  2  3  1995 

UCU101996 


"55  4119 


A     000139170 


